


What You Took From Me

by StagnationRebel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BBC, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Confessions, Danger, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Drugs, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, John to the Rescue, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, Loss, Love, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV John Watson, POV Molly Hooper, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sebastian Moran, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pain, Revenge, cases, drunk, mormor, mystrade, not done yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:52:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 23,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagnationRebel/pseuds/StagnationRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John registered the curly locks, the long coat, the blue scarf, those damn cheekbones. He looked almost exactly like he had when John has last seen him. <br/>“We’re out of milk, John,” Sherlock pointed out, turning to face John, completely oblivious to the gun pointed at his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            John sat in his chair, drink in hand. The telly was playing some movie that John wasn’t really paying attention to. John was simply staring at the screen, feigning existence as he finished off his glass, and feeling dissatisfied with his lack of buzz, he stood to pour himself another glass. He briefly wondered how much alcohol it would take to kill him, making this the fourth time today he contemplated suicide. The first was thinking of stepping in front of an on coming car, then there was starting a fight with a random, scruffy druggie hanging around the darker sides of town, and of course, there was always the hospital. On a weekly basis, John had a tendency to pass it, eyes wondering up to the roof, mind replying what happened. Every time, John knew that taking just one step over the edge would end him, and end him quickly. Every time, John knew that he was just one step closer to doing it too.

As he topped his glass off, his eyes found the time and realized it was getting late, so with a sigh he finished pouring the glass- who knows, maybe he’d wake up thirsty- and dragged himself over to his bedroom. Changed for bed, John set the glass on his night table and slipped beneath the sheets and let slumber droop over him. Tomorrow, he’d wake up, go to work and see a bunch of boring patients, contemplate death, and then come home. It was a sad little existence that John had that made him wonder with every waking moment why he was alive instead of Sherlock. He would’ve given anything to trade places because deep down, John knew something hadn’t been right with that whole scene. Yet, nonetheless, Sherlock was dead, leaving John with nothing but questions and heartache. At least in slumber, some of the pain went away.

Restless even in his dreams, John tossed and turned, waking more then once to untangle himself from his sheets. At one point, mid-detangle, John heard a light shuffling noise coming from the kitchen. He knew Mrs. Hudson had long since gone to bed and with the help of her ‘herbal soothers’ she wasn’t going to wake until the morning, so Digging in his night table for his service weapon, John slid from the bed and tip-toed to the kitchen, checking every corner before he rounded them. Just outside of the kitchen, John paused, seeing the shadow of someone tall. The fridge opened, John saw his opportunity, and swung around the final corner to the kitchen, gun up and ready, but once he did, he froze in disbelief. The barrel of his gun was aimed right at someone who simply couldn’t be alive.

John registered the curly locks, the long coat, the blue scarf, those damn cheekbones. He looked almost exactly like he had when John has last seen him.

“We’re out of milk, John,” Sherlock pointed out, turning to face John, completely oblivious to the gun pointed at his face.

“S-Sherl-” John’s eyes rolled back, and noticing, Sherlock was quick to slam the fridge door and rushed to John, grabbing him as his legs gave out, hand grabbing the gun and quickly flipping the safety. Tossing the gun to the side, Sherlock dragged John over to the couch and laid him down with some effort before dropping into his own arm chair. Oh how he missed his chair.

He looked at John, unable to believe he fainted. Who actually faints? Then again, seeing a person you thought was dead standing in the kitchen can’t be something easy to process. Sherlock was almost tempted to put John back in his bed and have him think it was a dream, but even Sherlock knew there was something deeply wrong with that. Besides, they both waited long enough to be in each other’s company again. Looking at John, Sherlock could see how obviously Sherlock’s ‘death’ effected him. He could see the weight loss, how it hollowed John’s face out; the white that now litters John’s hair; the shadows that haunted his feature and the wrinkles that crowded his face.

God, what had he done to his poor doctor?

For a brief moment, Sherlock’s heart tightened and he was more than sure it was guilt rushing through him, but it was quickly overcome when John stirred. Sherlock listened as John breathed his name, and he was tempted to respond, but he was more than sure John was dreaming. From the looks of it, John hasn’t gotten a whole lot of sleep in a while.

 

The next morning when John woke up, he was facing the backrest of the couch. Disoriented, he couldn’t remember for the life of him how he’d gotten to the living room, but then, like a brick to the face, it hit him. He’d heard a noise and saw Sherlock. But that had to have been a dream right?

In his chest, John felt his heart crumble a little more. He’d woken up with hope this morning, feeling maybe all the pain had been a dream. Instead, Sherlock was the dream and he was waking to another nightmare. With a sigh, John deflated and rolled off the couch. As he did, he noticed a lump on Sherlock’s chair, massive, wool coated covered lump with a head of dark curls spilling over the arm.

“Oh my god,” John gasped, heart throbbing as his eyes widened. “Sh-Sher-Sh-” John stammered, the name getting caught like a lump to John’s throat. Bliss and rage surged through John in a strange mixture that made him want to kiss the man for being alive and send him back to the grave for having lied in the first place.

Immediately alert, Sherlock’s eyes opened, finding John’s in an instant. Not wanting the former blogger to faint again, Sherlock moved slowly, first to a sitting position and when John didn’t pass out, he stood. Being taller, Sherlock now had to look down into John’s eyes. For a moment, Sherlock was trying to figure out what was going through John’s mind because it certainly wasn’t surprise anymore. He was tense all over, lips pulled into a tight line.

“John, please let me explain,” Sherlock began in a low voice that washed over John, and at the sound of his name, the doctor could be nothing more than happy his detective was alive.

Without actually thinking about his actions, John simply grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him into his arms. For a moment, Sherlock stood there paralyzed, processing what was happening, but then, he caved, embracing his friend.

“I could kill you for this,” John’s voice croaked as he buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and for the briefest of moments, Sherlock could’ve sworn, he felt John’s lips against his neck, followed by a few tears. But that most certainly couldn’t be right, yet it sent a quiver he didn’t understand through him.

When they separated, Sherlock could indeed see that John’s eyes were damp and Sherlock began to wonder if John really _had_ kissed his neck, but he wonder was quickly drown in guilt. The torment in John’s eyes reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the throat and held him over the edge of despair. Oh what his doctor must have lived through.

“Please don’t,” Sherlock halfheartedly chuckled. “Then you’ll have to start blogging for Mycroft, and I can’t even begin to express how boring that would be.”

John gave a dusty laugh, sounding like he hadn’t make a joyful noise in the longest of times, and Sherlock gave a smile.

“God, Mycroft, does he know you’re alive? Does Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? Molly? Any of them?” John inquired and Sherlock paused. He knew this wouldn’t lead to anywhere good, letting John know the truth, that Mycroft knew, that there was this elaborate plan to fake his death, and the longer Sherlock stayed quiet, the faster John’s smile began to fad.

“He might have known the whole time,” Sherlock said, casually taking a step back just out of John’s reach. “Molly too and maybe a couple other people.”

John’s face fell flat, his eyes icing over, causing a deathly chill to pass over Sherlock. “Did they know what you were going to do?”

Relief and joy that had filled John quickly gave way to rage and betrayal. How could Sherlock know what he was going to do, let others know, and just leave John in the dark the whole time? Hell, how could he tell Molly and Mycroft, but not him?

“John, please,” Sherlock began, feeling briefly helpless. This was not what he had hoped would happen during their reunion. He’d expected… he expected it to be as if nothing had changed. John would be all peachy colored, wearing some jumper, calling Sherlock a showoff as they ran around town solving all the world’s murders. “I needed someone to know-”

“Someone who wasn’t me,” John clarified, as if he really needed to, as if Sherlock wasn’t getting waves of guilt. He knew now that he made a mistake in not saying something. “How the bloody hell could you do that to me, Sherlock? Do you know what the hell I went through?!”

Sherlock cringed. Did he know? No. Did he see? Yes.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John seethed, hands balling up into fists, lips pursed.

“Jo­-” Sherlock began, but he flinched as John raised his fist. When nothing hit him, he lowered his hands to see John turning on his heel and walking away. He was slipping on his shoes and snatching his coat. “Where are you going?”

“I have no idea!” he shouted, his footsteps stomping down the stairs.

“Well, don’t tell anyone I’m alive yet!” Sherlock called after his blogger, but it was too late. John had already slammed the door.

“What the-” Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice say downstairs.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, considering how to approach Mrs. Hudson about the news of his survival. Obviously, with John as exhibit A, just showing up and complaining about lack of milk doesn’t work.

 

Outside, the weather was frigid, but John was hurt, and angry that he was hurt. He knew Sherlock was the type to simply think about logic and he did what his plans needed him to do, but wouldn’t it be logical to tell your friend that you were about to fake your suicide? Wouldn’t it be logical to not crush your friend’s heart, to not plunge them into a paralyzing existence where the only way to survive is to go through the agonizing motions of daily life?

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. The front desk at work was calling, and he remembered he had work. He was dressed well enough to go, being in what he wore to work yesterday, but he left his wallet at the house.

“Sorry, the doctor is ill today,” he excused himself, running a hand across his face. At least, it wasn’t too much of a lie. He did feel ill, both mentally and physically. He felt insane, really, and was half tempted to grab someone off the street and drag them back to the flat to see if they too could see Sherlock. Though as mad as he was or as insane as he felt, John wasn’t going to be telling anyone about Sherlock, having heard his words just before he left.

Standing at the end of the street, John debated what to do, where to go. He was tempted to go back to the flat, but another part of him wanted Sherlock to sit and stew until John came back, thinking about what he did. As he stood there, his cell phone rang again. The number was one he had not seen in about as long as he hadn’t seen Sherlock.

“You bastard, you knew,” John greeted with snarl as he answered the phone.

“Well, of course I knew,” Mycroft’s voice replied in that ever so pompous voice of his. “I helped him plan it, John. Now, if you will, turn around and go back to your flat. I’ll be around shortly.”

John stared at his phone as the line when dead, his ears disbelieving everything he’d just heard. Who was Mycroft to tell him what to do? After everything that happened, being the British Government or not, he had no right. Not any more. Not after all he lies.

Fighting the urge to whip his phone down the street, John quickly shoved it in his pocket and stalked off down the street, heading away from Baker Street and his back-from-the-dead flat mate.

 

Sherlock sat in his arm chair awaiting tea and the company of his brother and John. Mrs. Hudson had taken his return rather well, squealing, hugging him, making him tea. She didn’t question him, demanded to know why he didn’t tell her anything, so why couldn’t John? Couldn’t John have just let it be after they embraced?

In his pocket, Sherlock’s phone rang and he dug it out to see Mycroft trying to call him. The call quickly ended and a text rang in. Sherlock was almost tempted to laugh. His brother’s memory must’ve slipped. Sherlock didn’t do calls, not even after two years of undercover.

             Brother, it appears the doctor wishes to be stubborn- M.H

Sherlock frowned at the message. John was so angry that he didn’t want to come home? Even at the request of Mycroft? Okay, well that Sherlock did not blame him for, but there was the chance at a case for him, his first case in two years, back in action. John always loved the thrill of the chase, especially when it came to danger, but perhaps, this time it was for the better. This one could be exponentially more dangerous then normal.

Fingers typing away at his phone, Sherlock sent out two messages. One to his brother saying it was okay, the other to John asking him to pick up some milk while he was out venting.

Mycroft didn’t take long to show up, eyes scanning the place as he tried to re-familiarize himself with the flat, swaying his umbrella as he walked. He sat across from Sherlock setting the umbrella next to him as he crossed his legs. Folding his hands in his lap, Mycroft leaned back, eyes on his brother. Oh the things he could deduce. Sherlock and John’s little domestic obviously effected his younger brother. And there was something else underlying all that frustration that left his brother rattled, something that had to do with John, but- as much as Mycroft hated to admit it, even to himself- he didn’t know what.

“Things didn’t go well, I see,” Mycroft said, instead of saying ‘hello’.

            “Goodness, Mycroft. Resorting to pointing out the actual have we?” Sherlock countered with instead of ‘I’ve missed you, brother’.

            Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Things really went wrong. “Everything is obvious when you’re smart, Sherlock. I thought you knew that,” Mycroft snarked back as Mrs. Hudson walked in with tea.

            “Where’s John?” she quipped, looking around. “After two years of moping, I thought he’d be attached to your hip.”

            Though his face remained solid, Mycroft could see the hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, how lost and helpless he felt.

            “Went out for some milk,” Sherlock replied with, trying to brush it off.

            Mrs. Hudson rambled on about something as she set the tea down. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock listed to a word she said, being in the midst of a staring contest, but as soon as the sweet landlady was gone, Mycroft let out a deep sigh.

            “As you know, something’s been amiss,” Mycroft began. “Now, you’ve already told me before that Moriarty’s little cult has been dispersed, correct?” Sherlock nodded. “Then feel free to take a look at this and tell me what you make of it.”

            Mycroft tossed across the table a folder. In it Sherlock found a note reading: Dear Holmes Brothers, From me you have stolen that which cannot be returned. Therefore, I find it my duty to return the favor. M.

            Sherlock read it over and over, making out of it what he could. The fact that it was addressed to both brothers meant that this person was either on the inside, someone who knew them very well, or someone who was incredibly clever, considering almost no one knew Sherlock was still alive. The only person whomever referred to themselves as ‘M’ was Moriarty himself, so perhaps, there was a chance that this person was a fan of him.

            “Have there been any other notes?” Sherlock inquired, studying the paper, the weight, the typed letters.

            “No,” Mycroft remarked, adding, “Tests have been done. There are no finger prints. It’s a common paper. The enveloped it was sent in was unlicked, likewise with the stamp. The letter was kept extraordinarily clean.”

            “Well, I’m assuming it’s a threat to those we love,” Sherlock replied with a sigh. How unoriginal, so common. “So for you, I would just recommend increasing security on the bakeries in London and you’ll be fine.”

            Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and his lips were draw into a flat line as he countered with, “I’d find John Watson, brother mine, for the only people blind to your adoration for each other is you and the good doctor himself.”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he knew his brother was right. John Watson very well could become a target yet again, along with anyone who knew about this faked suicide. They needed to be warned to keep an eye out. The security on them needed to be increased as well. Mycroft could see to that bit.

            Mycroft stood, picking up his umbrella, and bid his brother farewell before sauntering out. Sherlock, as soon as the front door was closed, grabbed his phone to text John, who had said nothing about getting milk. When there was again no reply, Sherlock decided it was best to call him, find out where he was. His safety could be at risk and John should know, but the call went straight to voicemail.

            Normally calm and collected, Sherlock felt his heart falter, a slight tremble vibrating through his limbs. In his mind, Sherlock decided that it was too soon to act out any threat that letter may have implied, or at least, that’s what he hoped as he swung his coat on and headed out the door. The afternoon sky was pale grey as if engrossed by a cloud of dust and the breeze nipped at every bit of exposed skin. Sherlock turned up his coat collar to defend against the chill washing over him. As he made his way through the streets, Sherlock sent a consistent flurry of texts to John, demanding that they talk, to answer him, to know where he was, but never once was there a reply.

            After a couple of hours of prowling all the streets and bars and shops, Sherlock headed home. His every nerve was awakening with a slight panic, his chest in a knot. With John missing in action, it was time to warn Mrs. Hudson and time to call Lestrade. There was no time to take any chances.

            Back at 221, Sherlock went to Mrs. Hudson’s door and knocked, feeling antsy as he looked around. Nothing seemed out of sorts thankfully. The door opened and Sherlock was staring down into John’s blue-green eyes.

            “Where have you been?” Sherlock demanded, his eyes going over every inch of John, checking and making notes of anything that might be out of order with him, but aside from the distress he carried with him this morning, nothing seemed any different. Though, Sherlock did notice John’s face wasn’t rosy, so he must’ve been home for a while. “Why didn’t you answer you’re phone?”

            “I was out,” John replied through tight lips, anger leaking out with his words. His body tensed as he grew visibly agitated. “And it’s broken. I might have thrown it.”

            “Then you shouldn’t go out without me anymore,” Sherlock said to John before looking to Mrs. Hudson. “You either, Mrs. Hudson. Doors and windows need to be kept locked, especially while I’m away.”

            “Sherlock,” John said slowly and Sherlock could almost see smoke emanating from his nose and ears. “I’m not your bloody lap dog. Okay? I don’t need to take order from you or your blasted brother.”

            Sherlock blinked, confused, trying to process what had gone wrong, why John was so angry with him. More than once Sherlock had brought this out in John in the past, but that was with his own generally lack of sensitivity, but this time, Sherlock was just trying to prevent John from getting hurt or killed.

            “John,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice began as she touched a hand to his shoulder. “Please.”

            At her touch, John shut his eyes, breathing deeply to suppress his anger. But it didn’t seem to be working, Sherlock noticed, and he was beginning to feel like the lap dog John had mentioned, wondering what he’d done so wrong to make master so upset.

            “I’m fine. I’m sorry,” John grumbled, opening his eyes and looking at Sherlock, but Sherlock could still see the frustration as John walked past him. His footsteps thundered up the stairs, leaving Sherlock and their landlady staring after him.

            Mrs. Hudson let out a soft sigh, “I’ll lock up, dear, don’t worry about me.” She began to turn away, but paused, adding, “Just give him some time. It’s not easy thinking someone you love is dead and then finding out they’re not. John just needs a moment to regain a grip on reality.”

            Sherlock nodded with her answer and chased after John. Up the stairs he went, all the way to John’s room, trying to find the right words for a real apology. The door was shut, but Sherlock walked in anyways without knocking. Inside the room was trashed; laundry littered the floor; a half empty bottle of whiskey sat on the dusty bedside table; sheets and covers on his bed a tangled knot from nights of tossing and turning; and there was an unmistakable smell of despair wafting about the room.

            “What the hell happened here?” Sherlock let slip before he could stop him. “John, what happened to your room. This- this mess isn’t you.”

            It wasn’t. John was always the neat military doctor. Clean cut, straight backed, with a firm expression and soft eyes. That was John Hamish Watson. When John appeared, he looked sullen, more then he did downstairs.

            “You really don’t get it do you, Sherlock?” he asked, appalled and shaking his head as if he were answering his own question. “You jumped off a bloody roof and let me think for two years that you were dead. What did you think would happen to me? Christ man, you took me with you off that roof!” he stopped for a moment, chest heaving, fists clenching. He shook his head again. “I guess the only difference is one of us actually died that day. I’m not who I was anymore, Sherlock. What you see is all that’s left.”

            Sherlock swallowed and nodded, letting John’s words sink in. It took a moment, but Sherlock let the acceptance well within him. His John had changed. It was a slightly terrifying thing to try and accept because who knew if this new John would accept the same old Sherlock, but different or not, Sherlock was going to protect John. Protect him and do everything in his power to earn John’s forgiveness.

            Not really knowing what he was doing, Sherlock walked up to John and embraced him, pulling him close, holding him tight. John didn’t fight it, wrapping his arms around the consultant’s waist and burying his face in Sherlock’s chest. They stayed there in silence- John not knowing what to say and Sherlock being too afraid to speak while inside they both tried to configure apologies for their behavior, for their mistakes- but in that silence, no words needed to said, nothing needed to be explained anymore. The simple embraced conveyed everything they both needed in that moment.

           

 

            That night, Sherlock sat in his chair, exhausted yet unable to sleep. He kept his fingers steepled, eyes shut. The day played out in his mind, from the moment he thought John kissed his neck to the moment he bid John goodnight. He wondered if, like him, John was actually awake. The temptation to find out gnawed at Sherlock’s legs to move, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He was afraid of what might slip from his mouth if he gave into one temptation. He was afraid he might ask John if he actually had kissed Sherlock’s neck, afraid of what the answer might be.

            Feet shuffled in the hallway and Sherlock opened his eyes. Bare backed and hair ruffled, John stood there in jogging pants. He leaned against the door frame, and Sherlock took the moment to look at him, taking in the sight of him- the lean muscular shape of his body, the scar from war, the scars from cases. The lack of sleep haunted the space beneath John’s eyes as dark circles. He looked rough, but there was a smirk hinting at the edges of his lips.

            “Listen, Sherlock,” John said in a low, husky voice as he pulled himself away from the door frame and walked over his flatmate. “I’m sorry for having yelled and snapped the way I did. It’s just, you have this affect on me.”

            John was close now, hands on either side of Sherlock’s chair as he leaned in, his eyes running over every angular feature in Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s lips. Lightly, John’s thumb brushed over those lips, as if was trying to commit them to memory. Frozen, Sherlock couldn’t think. The idea occurred to him to move away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to. He liked the feel of John’s rough hands against his skin.

            “I can’t explain it,” John continued, his eyes fleeting up to Sherlock’s for a moment, “Sometimes, I swear I could just wrap my hands around your neck until you’re blue in the face, but then there are times were… I… were I just want-” his words faded as he leaned in closer, closing the space between their lips.

            It was a strange sensation that washed over Sherlock. Goosebumps rose in the wake of John’s touch, everywhere his fingers went until they coiled themselves into Sherlock’s mane of dark curls. But as strange as the sensation was, it was at the same time so familiar, giving Sherlock the same feeling of being on a new case. The exhilaration, the thrill that coursed through his body, but there was something different about this. Instead of his mind racing with theories and possibilities and facts, Sherlock’s mind settled into a still calm, as if all the pieces to a puzzle had come together.

            John’s tongue slid over Sherlock’s lips before demanding entrance. His hands were hungry for the feel of Sherlock’s flesh as they began to unbutton the detective’s shirt. John straddled Sherlock in his chair, a thick and passionate heat swallowed them as John reached for Sherlock’s belt.

 

            Sherlock’s eyes shot open, a sheen layer of sweat covering his skin. He was sitting in his chair. In his chair. Where he fell asleep. Scanning the flat, Sherlock looked for John, but saw no sign that he had woken yet. Thank goodness too. Sherlock could feel his face flush, realizing he’d almost had a full out sex dream that involved his roommate. Dreams in general were things that didn’t really happen to Sherlock; maybe once and a while at best, but sex dreams, it is, or at least he thought it was, an impossibility.

            Perhaps, Sherlock thought, it was because he was reflecting too much on the thought that John kissed his neck. Maybe it was time to just ask John point blank because there was really no other explanation for Sherlock’s dream. Outside of love anyways, but Sherlock was Sherlock. Love was far too sentimental for his taste.

            “You alright, Sherlock?” John’s voice asked as he shuffled into the kitchen, stretching out and yawning. “You look a little red.”

            Trying to stop his eyes from going wide, Sherlock nodded. “I’m quite alright, thank you,” he said as if he were being accused of something. “Did you sleep well?” he added, his tone regaining its control.

            “Yeah,” John replied, holding his neck. “Listen, about last night, I’m sorry. It’s just sometimes I swear you drive me insane. You and your brother, with all your demands and expectations. Especially now. I’m not some dog you can just order around.

            Just briefly, Sherlock thought he was still sleeping, about to relive his dream, but John was fully clothes with minimal flesh exposed and safely across the room. He took a deep breath, trying to relax, feeling his every muscle tightening.

            “Are you even listening?” John asked, agitated.

            Sherlock nodded. “Yes, yes I am. And again, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’ve never tried to hurt you. I’m just trying to protect you. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do.”

            John stood there for a moment, lips pressed into a flat line. He’d had a feeling there was something up. Sherlock didn’t demand that doors and windows be locked for no reason, and Mycroft especially didn’t pop in for friendly visits without an explanation. Hell, there were probably people on Mycroft’s payroll watching the place now. But still, to hear Sherlock say those words made him smile, just a bit. It reminded him that Sherlock was still human, that he cared for those around him.

            “Thank you,” John remarked earnestly. “But know, the best way to me safe is to keep me informed.”

            “Exactly why we need to talk,” Sherlock said. “Please sit.”


	2. The Night We Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MorMor!!!!! it's a short chapter, but its told through Moran's point of view. Its him, thinking about the night him and Moriarty first met!

            Sebastian Moran sat, feet propped up on the coffee table- something Jim would’ve yelled at him for. It was dark inside the living room, just the way he preferred it theses days because with the lights on, he saw Jim’s face everywhere. Knowing he would see him again, it tormented Sebastian to no end and made his trigger finger twitch. God, if it wasn’t for Moriarty, honestly, Sebastian would’ve killed the Holmes’ brothers three times over and the people they loved while they watched. But no, Jim has a very specific plan that Sebastian needed to follow. If Moriarty wasn’t the sick twisted bastard he knew, Sebastian would’ve said screw it already and killed them, but he knew, _he knew_ Moriarty’s plan would be well worth it.

            As Sebastian drank the piss warm whiskey, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat, thinking about the first time he ever met Moriarty. It was so long ago, back when it wasn’t all about murder. It was about mayhem- murder is what kept them together though- and lust. Sebastian had just been discharged from the army, dishonorably- they said he fired on one of their own on purpose, but they couldn’t prove anything- and he was at a dingy bar. The music was loud, but the crowd was even louder. In the back there were a bunch of bikers being hustled by some kid who honestly couldn’t be twenty one at a game of pool.

            When they bikers finally realized they were being played, they slipped on some brass knuckles and began surrounding the kid. Those bastards were all going to ruin his peace, so he stood, getting ready to stop the fight- because this totally had nothing to do with the fact that he really just wanted to bash someone’s face in. But the bikers were faster then Sebastian had anticipated.

            The bikers pounded, but a few stumbled back holding their throats or their stomachs, some of them bleeding- not mortally, though if they didn’t get to the hospital soon, it could be. All Sebastian could do was stare in awe. This kid really was a con-artist, by looks and brains. This kid looked barely old enough to be in here, as if his parents were in the back of the bar doing to the owner’s taxes, while he waited to go to Sunday school. He was lean, almost a little scrawny, dressed in a suit and tie- all black. It was insanity that this kid was doing all of this!

            By the time the bikers scattered, Sebastian had prayed the kid was over eighteen at least because he was head over heels in lust, ready to stick his dick and that kids ass. In the past, Sebastian wasn’t the type to approach any man or woman he was interested in, always left that up to them, but this time, his feet were just moving.

            “Hey, kid; how old are you?” Sebastian demanded as he the kid turned around. There was a mad smile curling up his lip, insanity blazing brightly in his big brown eyes. If it wasn’t for that look, Sebastian would’ve never believed that it was this kid who had taken on the bikers- that someone else must’ve slipped in.

            “My name is not kid, thank you,” the kid replied calmly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “My name is James Moriarty. Something I figure you ought to know if you were trying to fuck me.”

            For the first time, being this close, Sebastian could hear the thick Irish accent. It was quite the turn on as he wondered if this James stole some leprechaun’s luck to win that fight, or if perhaps it was just in his heritage.

            “That’ required caring about those you fuck,” Sebastian remarked casually, causing Moriarty to smirk.

            “In that case, follow me,” James said, slipping past Sebastian.

            Raising an eyebrow, Sebastian followed like an entranced puppy. He followed Moriarty to an S.U.V, a nice one, fresh off the lot, radiating in the light of the streetlamps above.

            “Yours?” Sebastian inquired, quite impressed.

            Moriarty turned his head, looking back at Sebastian, a sly look crossing his face. He cackled and shook his head as he popped the backseat door open, only impressing Sebastian further. James slipped in and Sebastian crawled in afterwards, shutting the door behind him. As he did, the kid whipped his hand across Sebastian’s face, leaving it hot and tingly, before James grabbed Sebastian’s shirt collar and jerked him close until they were kissing.

            Sebastian remembered how pissed off the S.U.V’s owner was when he finally came out of the bar he’d been in, find his brand new car a hot, sticky mess inside. Sebastian and Moriarty had stuck around just to see it, and nearly lost it when the owner asked them if they’d seen what happened because apparently they looked like decent enough citizens. They cackled and snickered like devil’s and witches as they watched the rampage.

            That night, neither of them gave out their number, nor any way of further contact. It would be a good couple of months before they happened across each other again, a crime scene Sebastian later figured out Moriarty was the cause of. It was the perfect chance to show off his skills- not yet with a gun, but yet again in the sack.

            The thought, the memory made Sebastian smile, just a little. Times had been simpler back then. A murder here, a murder there. Then the damn Holmes’ brothers came into the picture.

            Sebastian shook his head, taking another drink of his whiskey. It burned, tasting sour now, taking a turn with his mood. He let out a heavy sigh and finished off his drink in one bitter swig and set the glass down with a heavy thud before getting up. Time for bed, unfortunately. Tomorrow things would be set into motion. The fun could begin. It would be as if Jim never left and he could really mentally screw with the Holmes brothers.


	3. Authors Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EEERRRMM

Hey, uh, for those who read this, sorry it hasn't been updates in a while. I've been writing it... well in reverse. i wrote the last chapter the other day and i seem to get a bit more done that way. At least with this story. BUT!!! I will have a new chapter up soon. Before the end of next week. I PROMISE!


	4. I Forgive You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, Sherlock and John are off to find something to do! A case, maybe a drink or two or fifteen. You know. Drunk conversations to come soon! tehe.

            John racked a hand through his hair, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. “Alive for five minutes and you’re already pissing off dangerous criminals.”

            A smirk slid across Sherlock’s slip, “I guess some things never change.”

            _Clearly_ , John was tempted to quip, but instead, he just kept quiet. His mind was reeling with the information Sherlock fed him. There was so much to take in. Someone dangerous was after the Holmes’ brothers and those they care about. The fact that Sherlock was so concerned about his and Mrs. Hudson’s well being, it made John smile. It reminded John how human Sherlock was. John appreciated this side to Sherlock as much as life itself.

            “So then, what do we do now?” John asked, eyeing Sherlock.

            “Well, I need a murder,” Sherlock replied casually. “Surely, Lestrade will have something for us, and it will give me a chance to let the yard know I’ve alive.”

            “Oh that’ll be a surprise,” John laughed. “Can I bring the camera? I’d love to catch Donavan’s and Anderson’s reaction.”

            Sherlock spared John a laugh, but something flickered behind his eyes. A hesitancy. Could it be that even after all these years Sherlock was actually effected by what those two idiots thought? No. Maybe it was something else.

 

            Scotland Yard came into view and John felt his heart racing. He hadn’t stepped foot inside since Sherlock’s supposed death. After all of that happened, the yard had been nothing but another painful reminder of what John had lost. Now, it was a welcome reminder of what he has. Walking into the building, nothing felt different. There was a certain buzz in the air that electrified John, putting a bounce in his step. Judging by the light within Sherlock’s eyes, he felt the same, that any reservations he had about running into anyone was gone.

            They brushed passed oblivious officers and made their way to Lestrade’s office. It too had stayed the same. John could see it through the massive windows. Lestrade was standing, digging in his desk. He was about the only thing in that office that seemed to change. There was significantly more grey in his hair then there had been before. Stubble darkened his chin and circles haunted his eyes. Wrinkles that hadn’t been there before crowded his forehead and around his lips. Stress aged him the same way loss aged John.

            When his hand emerged from his desk, there was a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He removed one from the pack and began making his way to the door.

            “Those things will kill you,” Sherlock’s voice boomed in a deep baritone as Lestrade’s office door swung open.

            Lestrade stood there, frozen mid-stride, hand still on the door knob. John could see the debate in Lestrade’s mind as his gazed locked on the consultant, but John assured him that yes, Sherlock was alive and in front of him. With those words, Lestrade yanked both of them by the collar into his office. He shut the door behind them and pulled Sherlock close. After uttering that Sherlock was a bastard, Lestrade tugged John along into their group hug.

            “Did you know?” Lestrade inquired, looking at John after they’d separated and sat down. John shook his head, shooting a quick glance at Sherlock as a bubble of anger popped in his chest. “Jesus.”

            “Yeah,” John agreed, deciding to fill Lestrade in how Sherlock stepped back into his life. Lestrade scoffed. “Are you actually surprised?”

            “I am right here,” Sherlock interrupted, cutting off their gossip. “We came to see if there were any cases you needed help on.”

            Lestrade let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “If you had come back from the dead a week ago, we had a tough case.”

            “Ah, yes,” Sherlock said, with a slight tip to his head. “I remember reading about it. I wish I could say I’m surprised you didn’t catch her sooner.”

            With great effort, Lestrade fought off an eye roll and John simply pinched the bridge of his nose to hide his laugh. Watching Lestrade fend off his frustration as he mentally reminded himself he missed Sherlock was absolutely beautiful. Some things really don’t change.

            “Yeah, well, I’ll keep in touch if anything happens,” Lestrade managed, calming himself down. “Things have been crazy and we can use all the help. I’m sure you won’t have to wait long.”

            The detective inspector’s answer wasn’t enough to satisfy Sherlock and if John was being honest with himself, he too felt disappointed. He had hoped they could just jump straight into action, let the thrill of the chase fill them. But, it had to wait another day.

           

            After saying their goodbyes and agreeing to meet for drinks later in the week, John and Sherlock headed out. Both walked with their heads hung low, no longer knowing what to do with themselves. They had such high hopes for a murder. When they stepped into the elevator, they let silence fall upon them until they reached the lobby.

            At the bottom, the doors dung and opened. Donavan and Anderson were in deep discussion, their words hushed, so Sherlock and John tried to just slip by them. For a moment, they thought they could get by unnoticed, but they weren’t that lucky.

            “Sherlock?” Anderson’s voice cracked, with a slight tremor.

            With a sigh, John turned on his heel, feeling Sherlock tense next to him before turning as well. John pretended to adjust himself, casually stepping a few inches in front of his friend.

            When he turned, John saw what he didn’t expect though. Anderson looked completely different, seeming haunted in the same way John had been for the last two years. His hair was longer, as unkept as the beard taking over his face. Lines crinkled his face, but they weren’t ones from smiles. They were from long, sleepless nights. John knew. The shocked look on his face as he studied Sherlock was written across his face.

            Sally, on the other hand, didn’t seem the slightest bit changed. She still stood tall, that snide look on her face.

            “Freak?” She asked, shocked as well, yet still so unable to keep herself from using the nick name she appointed Sherlock. “Is it really you, freak?”

            “How?” Anderson’s voice croaked. “Molly identified the body.”

            “Ah, yes, Molly,” Sherlock’s eyes lit up with familiar memories. He turned to John. “Remind me that we should stop by and see her.”

            Sally scoffed, “Freak probably used some mind tactic on her, convinced her to lie or something.”

            John felt himself twitch with rage and knew that his old self would just tense up and keep quit. But John wasn’t his old self. He hadn’t been for a while. “Listen here you simpleminded twat. Get over yourself. I’ve watched and read about how this department is struggling against the recent crime rate increases. I know that this department will be crawling to two-two-one B soon enough. So, show a little respect for once in your life and remember who had been doing nothing but help you.”

            Donavan struggled to find words and she turned to Anderson for help. Only, instead of helping like he used to, Anderson simply stared in agreement. Realizing she’d lost, Donavan turned on her heels and walked away without another word. Anderson on the other hand did quite the opposite. He stayed behind, hands clutched over his chest as he to keep himself from reaching out as he relayed a long winded apology. Listening, Sherlock stood dumbfounded while John felt the tiniest smirk on his lips.

            “Let’s go out for drinks,” John suggested after Anderson wandered off. “We can celebrate your return.”

            “Right,” Sherlock replied, still processing what happened with Anderson.

            They swung by morgue to visit Molly, but she wasn’t around to both of their disappointment. Sherlock had wanted to say thank you- in his own way- for the role she played in his disappearance, for all that she’s done, really. John, on the other hand, wanted to what she knew, when she knew, why she didn’t tell him anything. Eventually, he would try to thank you as well, knowing she had in deed helped Sherlock in away John couldn’t. But first, he’d have to get over the idea that Sherlock couldn’t come to him.

 

            Once outside, the pair grabbed a cab and headed off to the nearest pub. It was a small place, a thin layer of smoke coated the air. Music floated in the background as people sat around at tables and at the bar, drinks in their hands, food on their plates. John and Sherlock found their way to the bar and sat down. They ordered two drinks before settling in a silence. John didn’t know what to say anymore. There was so much he wanted to know, but none of it felt right to ask. At least not right now.

            “Thank you,” Sherlock said, eyes straight ahead, purposefully avoiding John’s gaze.

            “For what?” John asked, then added teasingly, “You’re the one picking up the tab tonight.”

            A smirk tugged at Sherlock’s lips and his eyes fell to the bar. “For what you said back there, to Sally.”

            The bartender came back with their drinks and they both took a swig. Bitter and warm, it went down John’s throat, filling him with fuzz. He shivered, regretting for a moment his choice in alcohol. But it was strong and that’s what he needed right now.

            “Normally,” Sherlock half choked. “You just… sit there, grinding your teeth and ignore it.”

            Realizing what this meant, guilt pierced John’s chest and the pain spread like a poison. He’d never really stood up for Sherlock before, but that’s what friends are supposed to do. They’re supposed to have each other’s backs. Sherlock had done it- in his own way. He always insisted to anyone that tried to argue that John be allowed with him to crime scenes, always backed him when there was a fight.

            “I… I’m so sorry,” John said, his voice low, pulling his gaze away from Sherlock as shame filled him. “I should’ve been speaking up, from the beginning.” _No wonder Sherlock never told me about his plan._

            “No, no,” Sherlock continued quickly, uncharacteristically touching a hand to John’s shoulder and then pulling it away as if he realized what he was doing. “I was just thanking you for pulling the words out of my mouth. You saved me a great deal of effort, really.”

            A smile pushed against the weight of the guilt. Sherlock was lying and John knew it. Again, Sherlock was standing up for John, keeping John from beating himself up. While John had been sitting there all day, raging internally about how Sherlock left him. There was no doubt that Sherlock felt guilty. John had seen it on his face all day, all last night, and yet John did nothing to ease it. He couldn’t even keep Sherlock from beating himself up.

            “Sherlock,” John said, realizing he’d gone completely silent. The weight of Sherlock’s gaze fell on him, baring down on him with hope and guilt all in a single moment. “I forgive you.”


	5. Why Didn't You Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one, sadly.
> 
> With a number to Mycroft's direct line, Lestrade has one question...

            “So do you want to tell me why you’re brother is alive?” Lestrade asked, phone pressed against his ear. He took a long drag from his cigarette, watching the people pass on the sidewalk.

            “There was some work that required his attention,” Mycroft explained, his tone flat. He sounded as if this wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, as if it didn’t affect him. He always sounded that way.

            Lestrade shook his head and let out a sigh. “I fired Anderson because he was so convinced Sherlock was alive.” The frustration ate at him. He’d felt bad for Anderson, knew that kind of guilt, but he’d had no choice. Anderson’s obsession with Sherlock had begun effecting his work. He’d been convinced that if they’d come across something interesting enough, Sherlock would come back. That if there was a crime they’d been struggling on, Sherlock would appear and solve it all. So he began slacking purposefully on his job, waiting.

            “You mean the one that… bullied,” Mycroft spat the word, showing a bit of his human side, “Sherlock?”

            “The one who never got away with it,” Lestrade defended. “The one who has more then made up for it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “National security,” Mycroft answered simply, stinging Lestrade’s heart just a bit. “A lot had gone into planning this, and we couldn’t let many people know. There was too much as risk.” There was a pause where Lestrade could hear Mycroft shift uncomfortably in his seat. “There… there still is,” Mycroft finally continued. “Keep your eyes open for anything suspicious.”

            “Is there something I should know?” Lestrade inquired, confused.

            Mycroft cleared his throat, stalling. “Someone made a threat. Nothing I or Sherlock can’t handle. I just thought I should warn you, let you know that I’m putting a security detail on you.”

            “What for?” Lestrade pressed, curiosity pushing away his confusion. Mycroft didn’t do security for anyone in particular, unless it was Sherlock.

            “As I said, someone made a threat,” Mycroft repeated, his tone unchanging. “Nothing that I or Sherlock can’t handle.”

            Lestrade took another drag from his cigarette. He was tempted to keep arguing, tempted to demand that Mycroft fill him in. There was a lot that Mycroft knew, that Lestrade didn’t mind being kept from him. But this was something different. He could feel it. This threat had been made personal. Surely, he receives threats all the time, but the fact that he’s… _concerned?_... enough to say something, means, well, something.

            With a shake of his head, Lestrade let it go. He took a deep breath, “Well, are we still on for later?” Since Sherlock’s supposed death, since the funeral, Mycroft and Lestrade had made it a habit meeting up at a little café outside of town, away from all the big crowds. Lestrade had always figured it was Mycroft’s way of dealing with the loss of Sherlock, by being around those Sherlock spent time with so he could still feel connected in someway. Now, Lestrade wasn’t sure. But he didn’t mind.

            “Of course,” Mycroft replied, and Lestrade was almost positive there was a smile in his tone.


	6. Authors Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YO! It's a note because I have something to say, and I need the world to hear it!

again, to those reading this- if there is anyone- I thank you for sticking with me on this. I feel so slow at updating this story. I'm working on about a million things, but I'm going to work on updating at least one chapter a week. By the end of this week though, I should have two new ones up for you. You guys are fantastic, and thanks again!


	7. What Do We Do Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fun drunk night and the morning after. The chapter title says it all. What do they do now?

Stumbling into the flat, Sherlock and John made their way up the stairs to the living area. Sherlock’s head swam, his insides felt like they were cocooned in a warm fuzzy blanket. When he plopped down in his chair, he nestled in deeper, laughing as John nearly tripped over his long legs.

“I’m so glad your back,” John laughed when he finally made it to his own chair. “Things have been so boring without you.”

Sherlock smiled, all big and cheesy. “Well, naturally,” he slurred. “I must say, while I was away, I wasn’t bored. There was always something to be doing, someone to be chasing.” He paused, eyes wandering up to John’s slowly. “Though… it wasn’t nearly as fun without your companionship. I dare say I missed my doctor.”

There was a question at the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but he was hesitant to ask it. The answer wrapped his heart in the cold fingers of fear. He wasn’t sure how John would react and he didn’t have enough courage yet to find out. Wobbling, Sherlock stood, knowing there was an excessive amount of alcohol filling the lower cabinets of their kitchen now, and Sherlock intended to use it to find his strength.

It was weird, feeling this way. After so long of locking away his emotions, they all just felt like they were spilling over, refusing to be contained any longer. That time away from John, missing him, Sherlock couldn’t help but realize how lonely he had really been.

He pulled out a glass and found the strongest alcohol that John had stashed away. John appeared beside him, pulling out a second glass with a giddy laugh. He went to the freezer and pulled out some ice, dropping some into both their glasses. Sherlock smiled as he poured them both another drink. John sipped at his, fighting the bite of the warm liquid. Without hesitation, Sherlock simply downed his.

“Woah, slow down, Sherlock,” John laughed, holding onto the counter to keep himself steady.

“Did you kiss me?” Sherlock spit out before he could stop himself. “When I came back, we… I felt your lips on my neck.”

John’s face flushed, but he didn’t look away. He stood there, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. His mind was reeling for an answer and Sherlock could see it.

“What?” John asked as if he wasn’t understanding the question, but he was. He was just stalling.

“John, I need to know,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. He poured himself another shot, managing to do it without looking away from John. “Please, John,” Sherlock couldn’t stop saying his name, “it’s been… affecting… me.”

He did not move, did not breathe. Not a pulse beat in his body. John just stood there, eyes still locked on Sherlock’s. He gulped, like swallowing courage. It was the first movement of many to follow, setting things into motion. His hand twitched before he quickly lifted his glass to his lips, downing the bitter golden alcohol inside. Glass empty, he set it aside and with both hands now free, John took in a breath and grabbed Sherlock’s coat collar, pulling him down for a kiss.

It all happened in the blink of an eye in the span of real time, but for both Sherlock and John everything seemed to move like it was swimming through deep waters. The glass in Sherlock’s hand slipped from his grip, clashing to the ground, shattering upon impact. Neither did anything to stop it, captivated.

Heat swirled in Sherlock’s chest as the shock wore off and he wrapped his arms around John, pulling his doctor closer. He felt his eyes close, felt swept up in the moment. The flat around him disappeared along with the ground beneath his feet. There was only John, his touch, his kiss. His lips weren’t fairytale soft, but slightly chapped. Probably from all the times he’s licked his lips in the past. They were experienced. He was experienced, his tongue asking for permission before entering.

“I thought you weren’t gay,” Sherlock said in the moments they came up for air.

“I’m not,” John half laughed, keeping Sherlock close, not giving a damn about air. Breathing was… boring. Especially with Sherlock there.

“Then why-” Sherlock tried, but he was cut off by another kiss, by the feel of John’s fingers as they brushed through his curly hair.

“Because this is the most right thing I’ve done,” John said simply, chest heaving. “You are the most right I have in my life.” He put space between them, not much, but just enough to look up into Sherlock’s eyes. John could see the flames in Sherlock’s cheeks and felt proud to have been the one to put it there. “I don’t know what that makes me, and honestly, I don’t give a damn what it makes me. You and this right here is all I want, all I need. This right here is… perfect.” The last word slid out as a whisper. It was the right word to even begin to convey everything that was racing through John’s mind. But it wasn’t the only word. These weren’t the only words. There was still so much more John wanted to tell Sherlock, so much more that needed to be said.

This man, wasn’t just a perfect fit for John. He was John’s reason for breathing. Literally. This man, Sherlock Holmes, saved John Watson in ways he didn’t know he needed to saved. He saved John from himself, from his nightmares and all the twisted things trying to eat him from the inside out. Sherlock breathed life into John, gave him reason. And the word perfect barely scratched the surface of what John was thinking, what he was feeling.

Sherlock felt his heart stutter, trying to beat faster then possible and tripping over itself. These words, though not the words John felt were right, were more than right for Sherlock. They were words he’d been needing to hear with a desperate ache that dwelled deep within him, parts that he had locked away for so long. But now, exposed, raw, all of his emotions demanded to be felt, so he pulled the sandy blonde doctor tighter, closer and brought their lips together in a way that all the words that couldn’t be said were still there, still felt. So that the things they didn’t get the chance to say could still be known.

 

John woke to the pounding in his head, the sunlight burning through the curtains and scorching his eyes as they pulled themselves open. Something didn’t look right, something about his room. At first, John couldn’t place it, not as he shifted in bed and swept his gaze across the fuzzy room. It wasn’t until he realized that as he shifted, there was a body against his, a head on his chest, an arm draped across his waist.

Trying to keep his breathing steady, John tried to remember through the hangover headache what happened last night. Only bits and pieces came through the haze, but it was enough. He remembered heat buzzing through his skin as he and Sherlock began to pry each other’s clothes off. They staggered to the bedroom, trying not to break contact for more than a second, smacking into walls and doors, laughing the whole way. John remembered having to scamper back to his room bare assed for condoms, praying Mrs. Hudson didn’t just decide to wander up the stairs to see what all the commotion was.

Feeling his cheeks flush, John covered his face with his free hand, the one not wrapped around Sherlock. He could feel himself smile, could feel his heart race.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice groaned, husky and thick from slumber. He began to shift, his head lifting from John’s chest, leaving it cold, exposed. His eyes found John’s, glazed over as if lost in a dream. It was so different from the sight John was used to, so much more human and innocent then the analytical expression Sherlock normally wears.

“Um, morning,” John said slowly, his voice hoarse. He wondered if he snored in his sleep, but couldn’t remember the last time he did that. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well.

Sherlock simply smiled and closed his eyes again before placing his head back on John’s chest. John’s smile grew, and simultaneously the pair adjusted themselves closer together.

 

John flipped through the paper, occasionally glancing over at Sherlock. He was sitting at his computer, looking through emails, probably scanning for a case. Bored already, John realized with a sigh. Oh well. He went back to his paper, wondering if there was anything in there that could be helpful, something, anything really that could keep Sherlock’s mind occupied.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice came low and steady, causing John to look up. Sherlock’s eyes were still on his screen, but it didn’t seem like he’d found anything. It was as if he were staring through it instead of at it. “Let’s go out.”

“What?” John found himself asking, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion. This time, Sherlock took his eyes from the computer and looked at John.

“Well, I’m bored. You’re hungry. Let’s go out,” Sherlock repeated, speaking slower as if what he was saying was obvious. But it wasn’t. Not really. Was it a date? Or just lunch?

John smiled, “Okay.”

It didn’t matter. Date or just lunch, John didn’t care. Regardless of what it was, it was with Sherlock- his friend, his flatmate, his… lover? Is that what people called it now when there was no specific status?

John set the paper aside and stood from his chair to grab his coat. In the corner of his eyes, he caught Sherlock stand to do the same, but his walk was a little different now. It was slower, more careful. His back was straight and he limped just a little, making it impossible for John to keep from snickering to himself.

As they made their way outside, they ran into Mrs. Hudson at the door. She gave them the same smile she always does as they trotted out the door, but John could feel it. She knew. She knew. Though nothing about her smile seemed to have changed, John could feel her smug ‘I knew it’ attitude seeping through. John was tempted to ask Sherlock if he noticed, but decided to keep his moment of paranoia to himself.

When they reached the restaurant, they were seated by the window. Their waiter brought them a candle… again, only this time, John didn’t argue. He gave that up a long time ago. Now, when he saw the candle, he felt a smile as he ordered his food, a glare when Sherlock didn’t.

“Fine,” Sherlock said when he saw the look John was giving him. “I’ll… have whatever John just ordered.”

Damn straight. John beamed. Sherlock needed to take care of himself. Doctors orders.

Once the waiter was gone, Sherlock turned to John, “So,” he began slowly, eyeing John as if trying to deduce him. “What do we do now?”

John blinked, “What?”

“Where do we go from here? What do we do now?” Sherlock repeated, staring expectantly at John. “You’re the dating expert here.”

“Ah, uh, um,” John stammered. Not a single proper sentence formed in his mind, not a coherent thought processed in his brain. Was Sherlock really asking him… what?

“Come on, John,” Sherlock complained, looking around as if John should know the answers. Obviously, because John as done this a hundred times over. What was he supposed to say to that? ‘Um, we need to start going on pretty candle lit dates every friday night and you should start taking me to the movies?’. No! This was Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t operate like a normal person. Sherlock didn’t date… right?

“Give me a minute, Sherlock,” John stalled, still trying to figure out what he was going to say. “I… how… have you dated before?”

“You heard me call you the dating expert,” Sherlock replied, not completely answering the question, but saying enough that John understood. From his words, to the faint blush in his cheeks.

John licked his lips, contemplating what needed to be done, what needed to be said. This was Sherlock. “You… you can set the pace, Sherlock. Do whatever you’re comfortable with. If you don’t want anything to change, nothing has to change.”

Sherlock nodded. “Right. We can still solve cases, still blog, still piss off Mycroft.”

John laughed, “Yes. All of it. That will never change.”

“Should we tell Mrs. Hudson we no longer need that second bedroom?” Sherlock inquired and for a moment, John thought he was serious. Then he caught hint of a smirk. John mirrored the expression until they both broke out in giggles.

 

 


	8. I Can Only Be So Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly was in the tags..... so............... surprise..... here she is.

Molly’s head throbbed as she stirred. She struggled to recall what happened, how she ended up in a dark room she didn’t recognize. Her eyes wandered, trying to see through the haze. A bit of light shined in through the break between curtains. Molly wanted to get up and pull them the rest of the way open, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her head was all that was mobile, able to loll from side to side.

“Miss Molly Hooper,” a voice sang, low and gravelly. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

She tried to speak again, but not a single proper word would form. Merely a whimper echoed in her throat. She tried to turn her head to see who was talking, but he was too far in the shadows of the room to be seen properly.

“I’m to read you a letter,” he continued with a sigh. Molly could hear him shift in his seat, lean back, prop his feet up on a table. “Molly, how’s it going? Good I hope because from here on out, they won’t be. I hate to say I underestimated how much Sherlock cared, how much he trusted you. I know that his being alive has partly to do with you, and please, don’t try to deny it. Now, my dear, it’s not that I want you to suffer, but I do want to get Sherlock. I’m sorry. Almost. You did break up with me after all, so I can only be so sorry. Love, Jim.”

Another whimper left Molly’s lips, but she’d meant it to be a curse. Rage rippled through her body and if she could move, she would’ve gotten up to fight. She would’ve demanded to know where that slimy bastard was, demanded to know how he was still alive. She wanted to rip him a new arse.

There was a sigh, “I know Moriarty would’ve loved to say it to your face, to see Sherlock’s expression when your body is found. But he’s dead. So it has to be me.”

Molly could hear the tinge of regret and anger laced in his voice and couldn’t help but wonder if he had been in love with Jim. Sherlock’s words about Jim being gay flashed into her mind and she was almost tempted to laugh, to feel bad for this man, but she didn’t do either, couldn’t. She was still too angry.

Her captive stood from his place and walked off somewhere; she could feel his footsteps fading. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. This was probably the only time she was going to have alone and she needed to get herself moving. Molly Hooper did not go down without a fight.

She was determined to see John and apologize for having to lie, to thank Sherlock for including her and trusting her with his secret. She was determined to see another sunrise, to work and live another day. She refused to end up on someone else’s slab with a tag on her toe as someone tried to figure out her cause of death. It just wasn’t the way she wanted to go out.

Feeling her toe twitch, Molly felt her heart swell with hope. She could do this! Little by little, the weight keeping her pinned down seemed to fade away and she could move all of her toes.

The footsteps started coming back, their vibration matching the pace Molly’s heart picked up as she began to panic. Toes weren’t enough to get her out of this. She had to move more. Concentrating as hard as she could, Molly focused on moving her legs and arms. There was movement in her ankle, but it wasn’t much and the footsteps drew nearer.

“Alright,” he began again. “Jim said painless for you.” The sounds of his boots stopped right next to her head and Molly felt herself swallow. She was going to die. There would not be another sunrise for her, no saying thank you, no more working. This was it. This was the end. She was going to die for helping Sherlock.

There was no ounce of bitterness in her heart for that thought. Sherlock was a good man, had solved many crimes, and- whether he knew it or not- had a warm heart that just needed a little help. If she was going to die because she helped someone, she was glad it was because she helped him. She aided him saving the people he cared about, the people she cared about. She aided him in saving London. It was something she could be proud of. She was proud.

Molly closed her eyes and let herself smile one last time. Behind her eyelids, she could see all the faces of all those she cared about, of all those she knew. They streamed by in a series of flashes. Lestrade, John, Anderson, Sherlock, her parents, her friends, Mrs. Hudson. In seconds, she relived her memories. The day she was hired, the day she met Sherlock, Christmas’s celebrating with everyone at John and Sherlock’s flat, Mrs. Hudson’s cookies, the day Sherlock approached her and asked her the biggest favor of all. Thinking about it now, Molly realized how much time she spent pining after that man. Again there was no bitterness, no regret. Just realization. Just acceptance.

Something pierced her skin and pushed its way into her veins. This was it. Molly took one last breath and let the acceptance flow through her.

“Tell Sherlock that M says ‘hello’,” His voice whispered, or perhaps it just sounded like a whisper in her ears.

 

 


	9. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those who still want to keep reading *nervous smile*

MY roommate has already threatened to murder me in my sleep because i told her what happens in that last chapter. She refuses to read it. I don't blame her. I didn't want to write it. But i promise!!! This is not the last time we see Molly Hooper. She's fantastic and I love her. :D So PLEASE bear with me. And keep reading. Yeah? 


	10. I Will Do You The Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aye! GUESS WHAT? MORE MYSTRADE! because I said so. And there should probably be a bit more fluff after pain

“I have to admit, this is not what I expected,” Lestrade commented as he looked around. He and Mycroft were supposed to meet for drinks, maybe have some dinner, but this place was no bar. It wasn’t a diner. It was this high class, thirty Euros for a salad kind of place. All of the tables were empty, except one. Mycroft sat in the center, umbrella leaning against his chair, hands folded in his lap.

“Ah, well, people aren’t really my thing,” Mycroft replied, sitting up a little straighter. “Public areas, crowded places.”

“But this is…” what was it? “Really personal. Romantic.” Lestrade realized. Was Mycroft… was this a date?

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Gregory, there are few people in my personal life. Fewer people yet with my personal line. I like to keep it that way. I don’t people observing me or the people in my life. Especially right now.”

Lestrade sat down, wrinkles piling on top of each other in confusion. “Anything to do with that threat you mentioned earlier?”

A short nod was Mycroft’s response, followed by silence. Lestrade tried to digest it, this information. He was a police officer; he should be the one doing the protecting. He should be the one giving the protection details.  

“What’s this threat all about?” Lestrade asked, his tone stern. He wanted to know what was going on. He was tired of being the detective inspector that knew nothing that was going on in his town. The Holmes brothers seemed to know it all and seemed to keep it all to themselves. At least this one remembered his name.

“Someone… is threatening those that my brother and I care about,” Mycroft explained slowly, his eyes firmly on Lestrade. Lestrade had seen that look before, or at least something close to it. Sherlock has given John that look a time or two. It was analytical, curious.

“Care… about?” It was Lestrade’s turn to be curious. “Are you telling me-”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered quickly, cutting him off before Mycroft had to completely admit his reasons. “Maybe,” he added, heat crawling into his cheeks. He was incredibly thankful Sherlock wasn’t around for this. He could just hear his younger brother’s voice in his head, laughing. _Don’t get involved, Mycroft._ Sherlock would say it, just to throw Mycroft’s words back in his face.

“Well then,” Lestrade cleared his throat. “I suppose that explains a lot.” he could feel a smile trying to pull up his lips, heat rushing to his face. His heart gave an unexpected jump. It was an interesting thing, being on the reciprocating side of care from a Holmes brother. Sherlock had always seemed so… disconnected, for so many years. It was stranger still that this was Mycroft. From the little he knew about him, Lestrade had always known that Sherlock learned it all from his elder brother, all that disconnect. Yet, as strange as it was, it was an uplifting feeling. Lestrade literally felt lighter, felt like smiling more.

            Or course, Mycroft hadn’t tried to be obvious for so many reasons, but he couldn’t help himself. And Sherlock came back, there would be no denying that missing his brother was only an excuse to be around Lestrade.

            “I hope that’s okay,” Mycroft replied, his voice calm, casual. But it was there, deep within. Fear. What if it wasn’t okay? What if Lestrade wanted nothing to do with him anymore? It was that kind of fear that had always kept had Mycroft keep out of arm’s reach. But now, it was too late. He let himself care, and now that he cared, there was a threat. With threats like that looming over one’s head, there was no time like the present time.

            Lestrade’s lips twitched. He tried to force back the smile, to keep it hidden for a moment longer. This wasn’t entirely new to him, but it was new enough. He wanted to enjoy it. “As long as you go through the proper channels and ask me on a real date. I’m a classy bloke.”

            Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and Lestrade watched with a deep pleasure as the elder Holmes brother struggled to find words. It was beautiful. It was perfect. Watching one of the smartest men in London, in all of the U.K, not know what to do.

            “Would you do me the honor,” Mycroft began slowly, the red flames of embarrassment spreading fast up his neck and coloring his cheeks, “of considering tonight our first date, Gregory Lestrade?”

            “Since you were so polite,” Lestrade teased. “I will do you the honor.”

            Their waiter, which as Lestrade realized upon closer inspection was probably someone from Mycroft’s personal security, poured them their drinks. Lestrade smiled as he raised his glass. Mycroft did the same, almost. He didn’t smile. Not quite, at least not in the way a normal person would. Not in the way Lestrade did, with his lips. Mycroft’s smile was in his eyes. The way they lit up, the way the stress vanished from his features. The way his entire body seemed to visibly relax.

            They drank. They ate. They laughed. Lestrade shut down his phone, knowing someone else was in charge tonight anyways, and Mycroft silenced his. This moment, it was theirs and no one could take it from them. Not a robbery. Not a foreign election. It could all wait until that sun came up, until it was a different day. 


	11. I'll Take This To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's really short, but here's another one. Like i said, i'm going to do what i can to post at least once a week. 
> 
> there's like a million and one things i'm working on and trying to read (City of Heavenly Fire just came out, so i'm dying inside, plus i need to read Clockwork Princess. Ugh, *Sobs*) LOVE YOU GUYS

            Sebastian had to work fast, had to hide the body. If he could call it hiding. Moriarty had wanted to be placed in the public, had wanted it to be found quickly. He wanted Molly one someone’s slab before the days out. Hell, he wanted Sherlock’s heart on a silver platter. Literally. But one can’t always get what one wants.

            The thought momentarily stings Sebastian’s chest. He huffs, shifting himself in the drivers seat of the car. Damn it. Okay. He had his orders, a few suggestions on the side- just like Moriarty to give him some creative leeway. He could do this.

            Stopping Molly’s car, Sebastian pulled the woman’s body from the back and dragged her to front as he slid out of the driver’s seat. He crept around the car the passenger seat and dug around in the glove compartment, finding a container and paint brush. Popping it open, Sebastian dipped the brush into the scarlet liquid and began to work.

He had avoided parking beneath any street lamp, away from any cameras, so he had his darkness, his privacy. But he kept it close to the business district, so it would be public as soon as the sun rose. Sebastian took his time, keeping a watchful eye on everything around him, scanning for any twitch of movement, listening for any sound. There was nothing. Nothing human anyways, nothing that would catch him. A cat has crossed his path, rubbed against his leg.

When all was finished, Sebastian took off, heading for the horizon still colored with night.

 

 

Sitting in a diner, Sebastian’s body felt heavy. He could barely keep his head up as his food came, as he swallowed cold water. Though Sebastian had been home, he hadn’t slept. He’d showered, changed, and headed back out into he public, and he’d done it quickly.

In his note, Moriarty had wanted Sebastian to be around when Sherlock found the body, had wanted Sebastian to feel the satisfaction of the consultant’s pain. And though it was too soon to say he wouldn’t feel it, Sebastian felt he was too damn tired to feel satisfaction. Especially with this type of killing. What Sebastian wanted to do was splatter that bastard’s brain all over the pavement. Or even his friend’s, that doctor, and have Sherlock watch so he knew what it was like to see someone you loved die. _That_ would satisfy the shit out him.

Sebastian took another drink of water and felt the icy cool trail all down his throat. He ate his food, taking his time, barely able to chew, and waited. It was still early, but the sun was completely up, the sky burning bright blue. It wouldn’t be much longer.

Then it came.

The musical sound of sirens.

Smiling wide, Sebastian waved down his waiter, “I’ll take this to go.”


	12. Did You Miss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back to what happened to Molly

            John sat with Sherlock’s head in his lap. He was reading the paper, while Sherlock had his fingers steepled, eyes up at the ceiling. There was a smirk on John’s lips as he recalled last night. They had gone to their respective rooms at the start of the night and just as John was about to fall asleep, he heard his door creep open. He felt a dip in his bed, an arm wrap around his waist. They hadn’t done anything. Sherlock just tucked his nose in John’s neck, by his hairline. Neither of them had said anything, and within that silence was simple bliss.

            “John, the phone,” Sherlock said, his voice soft, piercing through John’s memories.

            Without looking, John reached at the table, feeling for the phone. It was buzzing when he snatched it up, flipped it open, and pressed it to his ear. “Hello?”

            “We need you,” it was Lestrade’s voice, his words harsh, short. “Both of you get down here.” There was a pause. “But… be ready. It’s not pretty.” Lestrade listed the address and John took it down as best as he could with one hand.

            “Sherlock, we have a case,” John said, hanging up. He expected Sherlock to leap from his lap, to jump for joy, but Sherlock didn’t. He stayed right where he was, still and staring at the ceiling. “Sherlock?”

            “Right,” he said, but he still didn’t move.

            A smirk slid across John’s face and he leaned down, pressing a light kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “The case, Sherlock.”

            Clearing his throat and turning pink in the face, Sherlock lifted himself from John’s lap. There was a smile on his lips as he turned to find his coat. John stood after him, doing the same.

 

 

            The cab pulled up to a small area, just outside the busy parts of town. John handed the cabbie some cash and slipped out after Sherlock. They jogged to the group of police cars and yellow tape. Everything was blocked off and John couldn’t see what was happening until he was practically right in front of the scene.

            There was a car, words painted in scarlet all across the outside. ‘Did you miss me?’ in all different sizes, from print to cursive. A massive smiley face was scrawled across the hood. In the passenger seat was a woman, her face drenched in the same scarlet as the car.

            John felt his stomach lurch, he could smell the coppery scent carried in the breeze. He hadn’t inhaled a scent of blood that strong since he was in the war, and it only grew stronger the closer they became. Sherlock drew up the police tape, allowing John to dip underneath and cross it, before following. Lestrade was near the car, speaking with Donavan, his face grief stricken in a way John had never yet seen from the detective. And after years of solving cases with him, it meant something. They’d seen kidnappings, robberies, murders, but this darkened his eyes, filling them with ghosts. He was hugging himself, as if trying to hold himself together, and John began to wonder what was so horrifyingly different about this one.

            Then he saw it, saw her.

            Molly.

            Stopping in his tracks, John forced his breakfast back down, seeing the pretty pathologist so covered in blood. So much blood. John wondered if that’s what killed her, all the blood loss. He wondered why this happened and who did this, and it sparked a flame in his heart, one that spread quickly. It enveloped him with a deadly rage and in that moment, he swore to find whoever did this. This one wasn’t about the thrill of the chase; this wasn’t just something to do anymore; this was something personal; this was revenge from one side to another and would be answered in kind.

            John turned to Sherlock, ready to say as much, but when he turned to Sherlock, he paused. Sherlock was blanched. He was frozen in time, hands in his pockets, eyes unseeing as they looked directly at Molly’s body. His chest did not rise nor fall with breath, eyelids did not blink, lips did not twitch. Not a curly hair on his head wavered. Watching him stay so deathly still turned John’s stomach ever more, wringing him dry of his rage, instead filling him concern that went straight to his core.

            “Sherlock?” John began, his voice quiet as if he were afraid the sound would shatter his friend.

            He blinked rapidly, taking in a deep breath before his eyes darted to John. “Right. Let’s crack on.”

            John wanted to stop Sherlock, to make sure he was okay, but Sherlock just pressed forward through the crowd. He began going through the motions of scanning the scene, seeing, deducing, putting the pieces together. But there was a hollowness to all his motions. They weren’t smooth nor filled with excitement this time. Instead, it was the most robotic thing John had ever seen Sherlock do. He wanted to reach out to him, to be there for Sherlock to lean on, but he had a feeling Sherlock would just shrink away.

            When he finished, Sherlock went to Lestrade’s side and began to list what he began to deduce, that most, if not all, of the blood was indeed Molly’s, that the killer drove her car to the scene, that Molly wasn’t the real target, that she was one of many messages to come. Lestrade’s face paled even further, if it were even possible, as he wrote down every word Sherlock said, his hands shaking worse with each word.

            “How the bloody hell can you go about this so casually, freak?” Sally demanded, stepping forth, her face crinkled incredulously. “Do you not have a heart at all? Christ, this woman spent years trying to get you to actually notice her, helped you in every way possible, and probably died because of it. And now, she’s dead, and you still hardly notice. You still go around like this is nothing, like she is nothing.”

            Before Sherlock could say anything, John felt his rage returning, and he stepped forward. Lestrade was quick to grab John’s shoulders as he spat, “Her name is Molly and you know nothing, so stop pretending to give a damn.”

            Sally was ready to step up the fight, to the challenge John was presenting, but Lestrade put up another hand, stopping her in her tracks. He led John away from the scene and Sherlock followed automatically. The crowd of police thinned, even the paparazzi dispersed, and pedestrians went back to their own business. Lestrade dragged John to an empty area between two buildings before finally letting him go.

            “Calm down, John,” Lestrade began. His voice was soft, not angry, or even disappointed. Just tired. Miserable. “I’ll be having a talk with her later about her attitude, but I can’t have _you_ losing your mind too.” Lestrade looked over his shoulder at Sherlock who was standing still again, hands behind his back. “I’ll let you know what I find out, and if either of you find anything, let me know… please.”

            Sherlock nodded, satisfying Lestrade enough to leave them and head back. John huffed, his face scrunched into a snarl. After hearing Sally’s words… oh, he wanted to hit her. John wasn’t really the type, old him or new him, to want to hit someone first. He had only ever threw a punch in his defense, but this time, he would’ve been willing to make an exception. He would’ve been willing to toss her to the ground, knock some sense into her. How could she be so callus? How could she be so foolishly blind?

            “One of these days,” John growled, eyes spotting Sally in the distance. “One of these days.”

            “Why bother?” Sherlock asked, his voice smooth, his face flat.

            John’s eyebrows came together in confusion. “You did hear what she said, right? I know you have a heart, Sherlock. I know you’re capable of love. She’s the real machine, Christ. Someone needs to show her some sense.”

            In that moment, time slowed, and John could see Sherlock transform. The person who had his head in John’s lap not an hour ago vanished. He could see the ice forming around Sherlock’s heart as the tenderness died in his eyes, as his face went deadpan. It was like watching his friend transform into this lifeless automation. There was no feeling in his expression, his eyes.

            “I have no heart,” Sherlock said, his tone dead. “And I. Do not. Love.”

            The words seemed to hit John like massive waves and he stood there taking them with an unchanging expression. He stood there with an unbeating heart. He stood there and the only sound he could hear anymore was an echo from within his chest. It was like the sound of an egg, smacking against the counter, and Sherlock’s words had quickly become the fingers that reached inside those tiny cracks and pried his heart apart just before setting fire to what was left.


	13. Authors Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HI

I've started the next chapter and it's almost done, i promise! But i'm going to be at Phoenix Comic Con this weekend, so I'll post it as soon as possible!


	14. I'm Afraid Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooooooooo yeah. Mystrade. Some Love. Some feels. Some..... yup. Both their POVs.

            Lestrade sat in his car, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel, stomach in knots. He wanted to puke. He wanted to cry. He wanted to kick, shout, and bury the bastard that did this. This was wrong, so wrong. It was twisted. Painting the car in her blood like it was a god damn canvas. _Who_ the _hell_ could do that?

            Molly. Sweet, poor Molly.

            _Christ, what now?_ Lestrade couldn’t think straight anymore. Not a single thought followed the next properly. Nothing was linear in his head anymore. Molly. Blood. Molly. Case. Molly. Threats. Molly. Sherlock. Mycroft. Molly. John. Mycroft. Mycroft. _Mycroft!_ Mycroft had said someone was threatening the people the Holmes’ brothers cared about. Sherlock might not seem like he cared, but he was with Molly constantly, and she spoke of him frequently. Even if he didn’t care, he sure as hell seemed like he did. Hell, the look on his face when he saw her…

            Digging in his pocket, Lestrade pulled out his phone. Mycroft knew enough about the threats, maybe he knew who was behind them. Maybe he could give Lestrade a lead. Anything. Just anything.

            The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. Confusion wrapped around Lestade’s mind. This was Mycroft’s personal line. He always answered. He always had it at his side. Lestrade dialed the number again, and it rang through just like before. Over and over, it rang through and concern began to wriggle its way into his heart. Where was Mycroft?

            “Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice finally answered, four tries later. “Is everything okay?” His voice was calm on the surface, but like a river, Lestrade could hear just how unsteady it really was.

            “No,” Lestrade replied, his voice quaking. “I’m not okay. Sherlock is not okay. John is not okay. None of us are okay.”

            “What happened?” His voice hardened, composed itself. He sounded more focused. “What happened, Gregory?”

            “Mol-” Lestrade’s throat closed up around her name and a silence fell upon them. Mycroft didn’t need to ask if she were dead or alive, or what happened to her. He just knew something did. Before Lestrade spoke again, he tried to get his breath back, to feel his heart beat again. “Is there anything you know, anything at all?”

            “I wish there was, Gregory.”

            A breath of burning air left Lestrade, and he didn’t know whether to feel relieved that Mycroft wasn’t holding anything back or broken that even Mycroft didn’t have a clue.

            “I’m sorry,” Mycroft choked, the phrase unfamiliar on his tongue, Lestrade could tell, could hear it. He didn’t apologize often. So why was he now?

            “It wasn’t your fault,” Lestrade assured, his stomach still churning, every nerve twitching. The only thing that kept his head from popping was knowing that Mycroft was okay.

            “Close enough,” Mycroft grumbled to himself. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

            “Dinner,” Lestrade decided. “Tonight and we can discuss it. My place. No arguments.”

            There was a pause, “Of course not. I’ll be there at five.” There was something off in his voice. “Thank you.” That phrase above all else seemed strange, coming from him.          

            “For what?” Lestrade asked, his face crinkling in confusion. His eyes were trained on his steering wheel, hoping to find the answers somewhere in the cracked surface.

            “Everything.”

            Lestrade’s mind began to spin. What was all of this about? Mycroft- it was like he wasn’t himself. He was just saying all of these things that didn’t make sense. Not for him to be saying. He didn’t just say ‘thank you’ or ‘sorry’. He was Mycroft Holmes. The British government. Sure he had grace and manners, but they didn’t just spew from his lips for nothing.

            “Before this conversation ends,” Mycroft added, “There’s one thing I have left to say.”

            “Can’t it wait until we see each other?” Lestrade wasn’t sure he could handle anything else.

            “I’m afraid not,” Mycroft said, “Don’t do anything until Sherlock is there. Nothing to the scene, to the body, any of it. Okay?”

            “Okay,” Lestrade agreed almost hesitantly. Mycroft was hiding something, Lestrade knew it; there was no hiding it now. But what? What was he not saying? “I’ll see you at five.”

            “Farewell, Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft said, his tone steadier than it had been their entire conversation. “Farewell.”

            The line went dead and Lestrade stared at his phone in his hands. _What the hell?_ His insides knotted up and his chest felt tight. Something didn’t feel right. Something had been off the entirety of their conversation. And Lestrade sure as hell wasn’t waiting until five tonight to find out what or why.

            He started up his car and started to drive. Though Lestrade had only been to Mycroft’s house once for one perfect night, the memory was burned in his mind. He was going to find the house, find Mycroft, and find the truth.

 

 

            Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed as he set his phone down. He let the darkness behind his eyelids comfort him beyond anything else, let his breath calm his racing heart. Acceptance flowed through him. In the end, everything would be okay. Sherlock would endure. John would be alright. Gregory would live. Even Molly would survive- if his theory was correct anyways. But they would be alright. Even if he wasn’t.

            “Alright, now stand up,” said the voice, Moran’s voice, through the darkness of Mycroft’s comfort.

            Opening his eyes, Mycroft looked up. Before him stood the tall ex-sniper, his sandy hair a bed-ridden mess, the stubble on his chin making him look unclean. His clothes- dark jeans and a tee-shirt- were wrinkled, stained by blood. Mycroft’s blood. Before the phone call, Sebastian Moran had taken a few… practice… swings. The gun currently held to his head was for mere threats, incase he slipped up during his conversation, incase he tried anything at all. But Mycroft knew the ex-sniper wouldn’t use the gun, knew he didn’t need to.

            Mycroft rolled his shoulders, loosened the muscles. It would hurt less that way. He took a deep breath, inhaling what he hoped was courage, and stood. The gun was lowered from his head, the safety flipped on, and slipped back into it’s holster.

            “This is going to hurt,” Moran said, his tone cold. “That’s what he wanted. Pain.”

            Mycroft smirked, “Wants.”

            Sebastian only took a second to look confused before taking his swing. He clipped Mycroft in the eye, causing white dots to dance in his sight. But Mycroft, though not used to fighting, fought back. He tried to defend himself, tried to even go on the offensive, and for a guy who spent most of his time behind a desk, he did alright. The blocking hurt, so did the punches, but in the end, the ever fit mercenary won.

            Mycroft could taste his own blood, could feel his every muscle throb. A different kind of darkness crawled into his vision, the kind that was all encompassing, the kind that promised nothing. In a moment like this, Mycroft almost wished he believed in a higher power, a better place. It would be a comforting thought, but he wasn’t that kind of person. The only comforting thought he could give himself was Lestade. He was going to be okay. Lestrade wasn’t going to be hurt. He would survive, carry on, and save other lives.


	15. Where Do We Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to John and Sherlock, and those cold words.

            The cab ride back to the flat was quiet. Sherlock sat, clinging to the door as if he couldn’t wait to get away from John, and John sat against his own door for other reasons. He sat against it for support, for assurance. To feel grounded. All the things he wished he could be for Sherlock; all the things he wished Sherlock would let him be. But no. Instead, Mr. I Don’t Love decided to curl up in a corner.

            “Here we are,” the cabbie said and John paid the man as Sherlock flew off out of the car and to the flat with hast. “Were you folks in a hurry?”

            “Long day,” John brushed off before getting out himself. “The longest honestly.”

            Standing on the sidewalk, John watched as the cab drove off, procrastinating for as long as he could. He didn’t want to go in, to see Sherlock pace or sit or whatever he might try and do. He didn’t want to be in the living room or his room or the kitchen or any room. He felt confined enough in his own skin. At this point, John would’ve given anything for breathing room, but there was never enough room or air.

            He racked a hand through his hair. _God, poor Molly._ The whole time, John hadn’t been able to move or think properly. There had been so much blood. And Molly, she had been drenched. It had splattered across her face, matted her hair, stained her clothes. Yet, in the midst of it all, she looked like she’d been asleep in bed instead dead in her car. John had seen many deaths, seen the unnatural way the chest is still, the way a vein no longer pulsed. He had felt the deathly chill that shivered up his spine. But today, it had been different.

            With a sigh, John turned his eyes towards the higher windows of the flat. He had to face the sight sooner or later. Taking the first step was the hardest, so he gripped his strength and put one foot in front of the other. The stairs disappeared beneath his feet and he trampled over them like they were nothing. But they were something. They were mountains and he was but a man about to face a dangerous peak, one layered thick with ice and snow.   
            Sherlock was the first thing he saw in the living area, his back turned, eyes out the window. There was a flag of smoke billowing away from Sherlock and John knew he was smoking, could smell the bitterness from where he stood.

            Anguish consumed John’s heart, and he wanted nothing more then to reach out and touch Sherlock, to show he was there. But he knew he shouldn’t. Sherlock would just flinch away, shut down. Instead, John let out a sigh and sat down in his chair.

            “You sound upset,” Sherlock said, his tone casual, but oh-so forced.

            “I’m not the one smoking,” John grumbled in reply, frustration bubbling inside him. Sherlock was pushing away his emotions.

            “Are you going to take them away and yell at me?” Sherlock asked, annoyance riddled in his voice.

            John shook his head as if Sherlock could see him. “No. No, I’m not. If you won’t let me help you, better those things then something worse.”

            Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John for the first time since they left the crime scene. Since they left Molly. “I don’t need help.”

            “Right,” John gave a curt nod. “Just like you don’t love, and you don’t feel, and you don’t care. Deny it all you want, you’re at least part human. I’ve seen it before. You have emotions, you just- you shut down.”

            “If you don’t like it, leave,” Sherlock challenged, his eyes holding John’s in a way they never have before, so filled with fear and hope and rage. He could see it, all of them, those emotions beginning to boil over. But as the sentence processed in John’s head, he felt his heart give pause.

            “Leave?” he scoffed, incredulous. “Leave?” he repeated. There was no way Sherlock had just told him to leave. He’d never done that before, not like this, not when it wasn’t some mind palace thing. “You want me to leave. No. Sorry. I’m not going anywhere. You may piss me off and you may deny the fact that your human, but I know you and I know the truth. Nothing could drag me away from this place, from you. Especially now. If you don’t like it, deal with it.” John crossed his legs and sat deeper into the chair just to prove a point, to show he wasn’t moving. Try as he might, Sherlock was not going to drive him away.

            Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, to keep arguing just so he wouldn’t have think about the alternative, about Molly. Instead, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and turned back towards the window. He puffed on his cigarette and stared out beyond the city, beyond the horizon, beyond the sky. Sherlock wasn’t there anymore, not mentally. This was something different from the mind palace, some other kind of retreat that John hadn’t seen before and wondered what it was.

            “We need to solve this,” Sherlock said after some time, his voice quiet in the soundless flat.

            “Where do we start?” John inquired.

            Putting out his cigarette, Sherlock continued to avoid John’s gaze, “Mycroft.”

            Like a reflex, John reached for his cell and cursed, “Remind me to get a cell phone replacement.’

            Sherlock shook his head and grabbed his own phone. He dialed­ _\- actually dialed for a phone call-_ Mycroft’s number. John watched as Sherlock listened, and together they waited. Even from where John sat, he could hear the call just ring through. But that couldn’t be right, _right?_ Mycroft always answered his personal line.

            Without hesitation, Sherlock hung up and grabbed his coat. “Let’s go,” he commanded before dashing out, John staggering to keep up.

            They haled another cab and Sherlock rattled off the address, demanding the cabbie make hast. John didn’t need to ask where they were going or why. He knew well enough that when Mycroft didn’t answer his phone, something was wrong, that there was danger.

 

 

            By the time they reached Mycroft’s house, Lestrade was slipping from his car and taking what could only be the longest strides possible towards the front door. A frantic expression crossed the detective’s features as he looked over his shoulder.

            “What are you lot doing here?” Lestrade asked as the duo caught up.

            “Could ask you the same,” John countered, voicing Sherlock’s question perfectly as the consultant eyed him skeptically.

            “Well, not going to lie,” Lestrade began with a worried smirk, “we’re dating.”

            John choked back a laugh and kept his smile tight. Now was not the time for smiling, for laughing. They could do all that once they saw that Mycroft was okay, that he had for some reason stepped away from his phone.

            “Well, I guess my brother and I have a lot more in common then I thought,” Sherlock said as they reached the door, earning a look from Lestrade, who’s eyes went from Sherlock to John and back. John nodded, to confirm the question in his eyes, to make things move a long a little quicker.

            “Wow,” Lestade managed as Sherlock tried to open the door. “Congratulations.”

            It opened easily. John had expected it to be locked, for there to be some kind of alarm system, body guards. Maybe even attack dogs. Something. Anything. Mycroft was an important man who needed protection. The fact that there was nothing left John, left every one with an uneasy feeling in the pit of their stomachs.

            For a moment, nothing seemed out of place, but as the trio made their way further into the house, there was broken glass, blood, a broken chair, a torn picture. On the floor in the living room, Mycroft lay sprawled out on the floor, more blood around him. Lestrade was faster then anyone else in getting to the elder Holmes’ side. John was next, instantly checking for a pulse.

            “He’s still breathing,” John quickly announced, relief crashing over him like a cool wave. “Lestrade, go start your car. We don’t have time for an ambulance.”

            Lestrade was up and out without another word and Sherlock helped John pick up Mycroft. They managed to get him to the car and stuffed him in the back, John went with him. Sherlock took the passenger seat while Lestrade drove, violating every traffic law in London.

            “Les-” Mycroft’s voice croaked, his eyes flittering open for a mere moment.

            “I’m here,” Lestrade said quickly, not taking his eyes off the road.

            “What happened?” John asked quickly, hoping to get an answer before Mycroft lost consciousness again. “Mycroft, who did this?” But it was useless. Mycroft’s eyes had closed again and John checked for a pulse. He was still alive, still breathing.

            “Just around that corner!” Sherlock directed and they pulled into the lot. Everything after that felt like a blur of nurses in scrubs and shouted orders and people just running around. Mycroft was put on a gurney and wheeled in. They were told to wait and there was nothing more for them to do. It was like everything went from racing to standing still. It was a chaotic stillness, and John wasn’t able to settle. None of them could. A friend, a boyfriend, a brother was the one being surrounded by nurses, doctors, covered in blood. There was no such thing as calm, not even in the quiet of the waiting room.


	16. Authors Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHAT MORE TO SAY

So PCC was fantastic! I died, like, three times over! Met authors, when to John Barrowman's panel, got autographs. BLISS! and then i started reading COHF, so i'm stuck in a world of feels, taking my time in them. But i have to get out my feels one way or another, so I'm writing them. I'm sorry you guys. But i'm going to keep working on the chapter updates. I have an actual ending in mind! I know where the story is going and what not, and there's potential for a second one tehehehe. For those still reading and strong enough to continue, thank you so much! I love you guys! Even those who just browse on by the story. :D Thanks for everything!


	17. I Should've Stayed Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll have an authors note after to explain my absence! I'M SORRY!!!!!

Sherlock couldn’t sit still. He went from crossing and uncrossing his legs to pacing around, from sitting to standing to sitting again. It made John’s nerves dance until even he couldn’t sit still anymore.   
“Greg, would you mind staying here with Mycroft until he wakes up?” John asked the ghostly detective. “I’m not sure how much longer Sherlock can stay in here before I lose my sanity.”  
“Yeah,” Lestrade swiped his gaze over Sherlock, who was eyeing up a couple in the corner. “Please get him out before he starts his- his thing.”  
John took a deep breath, “Right,” he said, getting up, “Sherlock,” he called. He waved his hand and Sherlock leapt into action, appearing at John’s hip.   
“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said before John could even get a word out. John was tempted to question it, the sudden need for home. Instead, for now, he took it as an unpredictable reaction to an insane situation.   
John told Lestrade to inform him if anything changed, if Mycroft woke up, if anything happened. Only after he agreed, did John escort Sherlock away. With the same efficiency he has on a case, Sherlock haled them a cab and they rode home in silence, but unlike last time, Sherlock wasn’t clinging to the door. He was tense, eyes focused on something John couldn’t see. Around them, the air was growing thick, at least for John. There was so much he wanted to say, but could he say any of it without it being a lie?   
There were people in the hospital, the morgue, something that would never be okay. Sherlock is smart and he would very well figure this mess out, but Sherlock is human. John couldn’t tell him not to worry. He didn’t want to be a hypocrite. He was worried after all. Not about himself. But for Mycroft, for Greg and Mrs. Hudson, most of all for Sherlock.  
God, he was worried about Sherlock. That man might not admit it, but John didn’t need him too. John could see how everything was tearing him apart inside, how the guilt was eating him alive.   
When they reached the flat, Sherlock was out of the cab and inside before John realized they had even stopped. He let out a sigh. 

 

His room was dark as always, but this time the shadows seemed to be closing in on him, trying to pull him under into the madness. Just like they did when he needed a fix. Only the madness didn’t have to try so hard this time because he was already there. The guilt, the rage. Sherlock didn’t know who was behind this, didn’t know how to stop this. Without a doubt, he knew, John would be next.   
John. John Hamish Watson. His flatmate, best friend… boyfriend. He was going to suffer somehow and Sherlock couldn’t stop it. John had already suffered so much and at Sherlock’s own doing no less. Now this. This person wouldn’t be after anyone if Sherlock hadn’t even done whatever it was that he had done.   
Frustration bubbled over, flashes of blood splattered over his thoughts, the words ‘Did you miss me?’ painted across his brain. Mycroft was in the hospital. Molly was in the morgue. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t figure this out!  
Sherlock whipped around with an angry growl, tossing the cell phone he’d been holding in his pocket. He couldn’t take any of it anymore.

The first one, the first thump felt more like an explosion going off inside of her chest. Pain briefly washed over her body, sending a wave of white and black spots to dances on her eyelids.  
Boom!  
Another explosion inside of her chest, barely a little less painful. She didn’t know what was happening.

 

A savage look settled into Sherlock’s eyes as he looked over his room. The shadows had completely consumed him, but he knew there was some kind of light in his room, one that would cast all the darkness out, take away the pain, the guilt. Something that could take all the bad away.   
But where was it?  
Sherlock knew he had put it somewhere Mrs. Hudson and John wouldn’t think of. It’s been so long since he even thought about it, the fact that he had it, much less where it was. But with everything, the memory of it rose above the chaotic storm in his mind. 

 

After the pain, an icy feeling settled into Molly’s skin, sinking down to her bones. Her entire body felt heavy, and even as she tried, she couldn’t move. Not to open her eyes, to call out. She could barely move enough to breathe. 

 

He dove into his closet first, digging through any pockets of his jackets, his pants, shoes. Not even lint could be found. Nothing. Another roar ripped from Sherlock’s throat, one he could feel rumble in his chest. He tore old boxes from the shelf, spilled papers everywhere, pried open dusty binders. Desperation washed over him, overpowering the guilt. The addict in him rose to the surface.   
There was a knocking at his door.  
“Sherlock?” John’s voice came, piercing through the door, through his heart. “What are you doing?”  
This was wrong. Sherlock knew. He should go to John, pull that man into his arms. It was the human thing to do, it was the right thing to do. But Sherlock wasn’t human like this. Right and wrong were nothing his mind could process.   
Sherlock began yanking cases off of the pillows, sheets from the mattress, knowing his door was locked. And John would give up soon enough, go back to his own room. He would figure Sherlock needed his own space.   
“Sherlock?” he heard his name again, followed by more knocking. 

Breathe? She was alive! That painful throb was a heartbeat! They kept coming, becoming more steady with every passing second, and with every one of them came a wave of relief. She would see another sunrise, watch another bad television show, attend another family dinner. So much was possible. So much would happen. All she had to do was open her eyes, move. 

He wanted to tell John to stop that persistent knocking, to leave him alone, but he couldn’t bring the words to his throat. Deep down inside, hiding beneath the addict, Sherlock knew that the only thing more wrong that what he was doing, was telling John to disappear. The first time those words left his mouth today, killed him. It was still killing him. All of this was just killing him!   
Maybe I should’ve stayed dead.  
“Let me in, Sherlock,” John’s voice came off as demanding, but Sherlock could hear it, the pleading undertones. He was desperate too, just like Sherlock. But Sherlock ignored it, tuned him out. Or tried too. It was more then a persistent knocking now, more of a pounding.   
Sorry John.

 

Her eyes felt glued and prying them open without the use of her hands was impossible. When they finally snapped open, it was like a miracle. Though she didn’t know what she expected, she was sure it wasn’t more darkness. Maybe a blinding light, the face of someone she knew. Had they already put her in a coffin?   
No. No that wasn’t right. Molly was sure a cushy coffin would be more comfortable. It wouldn’t be so rock solid, so cold. She felt bare, naked. Maybe she was at the morgue. And if she was, someone certainly had to be around… right?

 

“So help me, Sherlock, I will break this door down,” John said, his voice rough but clear.  
Sherlock paused mid-motion of tossing something, thinking. John wouldn’t… oh but he would. This was John Hamish Watson. He had no problem breaking down doors. He’d done it before on cases and Sherlock had always admired his strength. 

 

Slowly, her body began to feel lighter, her mind functioning faster. Molly tried to move again, her fingers, her arms, a toe. Something. Anything. A grunt freed itself from her throat. But she needed a scream, a kick. She could feel the urge to do so, it gave her another kind of strength. It was almost motivating. It was her key to survival. 

 

He turned over the small night table by his bed, having already torn through the drawers and everything else in his room. A hopelessness began to crash down on him, leaving him feeling like his trashed room looked. What if he didn’t find it? He’d have to face John sober, feel his guilt, his own stupidity. He’d have to face the reality that he could save no one. Not Molly. Not Mycroft. Not John.   
Sherlock’s thoughts began to sink right into defeat as if it already happened, but as he turned over the night table, he saw it. It was a cigarette case, but Sherlock knew there were no cigarettes within. Even if Mrs. Hudson or John or even Mycroft had come across it, they would’ve suspected nothing. It was perfect.   
With a twisted smile warping his lips, Sherlock reached for it.

Finally, a scream, loud and piercing, broke free. It ripped out of her throat and rang loud in her ears. Someone would hear it. Someone would be there.

 

“Sherlock!” John hollered, his voice fierce. He reared up, ready to break down the door, to tackle Sherlock. His heart thundered madly, pain and fear rippling through him. 

 

Light blinded Molly as a door opened by her head. Freedom! She was saved!

 

John took deep breath. This was it. “I’m coming in!” John warned, but as soon as the words left his mouth, the door opened. Sherlock stood before him, phone in hand. He was pale, shaking slightly as he held it out for John to see.  
Mollys alive.  
Those two words caused John’s heart to sputter and a hopeful smile nearly cracked his face in half. This is what Sherlock needed to hear, needed to know. It’s what would help him along, in a way John knew he never could. He pulled his consulting detective into his arms and held him there, kept him there long after Sherlock gave into the embrace.   
“She’s alive,” John whispered, voice cracking.


	18. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMG I'M SO SORRY

Okay, i know i said, like, i would post every week, but i like moved across the country and then i didn't have the internet (Still don't. i'm hacking my mom's wifi in the middle of no man's land where everything runs slow) and THEN to top it all off, i didn't know how i wanted to write this chapter. I started and stopped like over a dozen times! It sucked so bad (and i plan on doing an entire second draft one day for this whole thing when its done, to fine tune all the details and descriptions- let's face it, not everyone has a great first draft. i certainly am no different). but then one day, at work, instead of thinking about how i wanted to write it, i thought about how i would film it. So this is the basic of what i got. so yea. I hope this chapter was worth the wait and i plan on getting the next one up sooner!! it'll be a little easier to work on from here, i feel. :) I LOVE ANYONE WHO IS STILL READING THIS AND IS PUTTING UP WITH MY LAMENESS! and even those who aren't. XD


	19. Come With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just when things were going sooooo well :D

                They stood outside her hospital room, shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock a tight knot next to him. John was quiet, letting Sherlock have his thoughts. He wished there was something he could do to ease this for Sherlock, something he could say, but Sherlock’s expression was blocked off. Sherlock was blocked off. Cut off from him. John felt isolated, but he knew that if he felt isolated, Sherlock… Sherlock must be worse. Isolated even in his own mind, left in the dark. He must be so alone, so… afraid.

 

                Sherlock could see only the door before him, his mind reeling. Molly was just beyond that door. This was her room, a place where she would be. He thought of her, the last time he saw her. He could see her in that car, drenched in blood. It was matted in her hair, staining her clothes. The metallic stench had been thick in the air, and he wondered now if she was still be covered in red. He wondered if she was mad at him.

                “Sherlock,” John began, his voice as soft as the hand that reached out to touch his shoulder.

                “What if she hates me?” Sherlock accidently let slip before he could stop himself. He immediately cursed himself and before John could comment, he added, “Shut up.”

                “What- no,” John said, taking a step back, “Hold on. Sherlock, she’s not going to hate you. She can’t. It’s not Molly. You know that. You know, you’ve seen how smart she is, how strong she is. She’s alive and she’ll be stronger yet.”

                Sherlock cast a glance his way, his eyes searching John’s face. John was right. He was always right. Sherlock took a deep breath and readied himself as he pushed the door open.

                Molly was resting in her bed, dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked up as soon as the door opened, her eyes finding them, going back and forth between them. A smile slid across her face and she lit up.

                “John, Sherlock,” she beamed. “I’m so happy to see you boys okay.”

                “You’re happy,” John snorted. “We’re thrilled. You gave us a bit of a scare.”

                “More than a scare,” Sherlock corrected as he stood, back straight, hands behind his back. He strode up to Molly’s side, his eyes bearing down on her. She looked up at him with a smile and he pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. Sherlock could see John smirk in the corner of his eyes. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

                “I was told to tell you ‘M says hello’,” Molly said, her voice soft, her eyes growing distant for a moment.

                The air around them seemed to freeze. M. Was she saying… Moriarty? He’s dead. He shot himself in the head. Sherlock had seen it. The blood. The brains. It was all over the rooftop that day.

                “Moriarty’s dead,” Molly continued. “He said that. That guy who took me. He said that Jim was dead, that he wanted you to suffer. But he never said his own name. I think he knew I was going to live.”

                Sherlock stood there, blank faced and blinking rapidly. His eyelids were the only thing he could move. Breathing was impossible. He could barely feel his heart beating. Moriarty was dead. But someone who knew him, someone who how to work like him. A friend? Someone he trusted? It was a thought to scoff at, really, but from the sound of it, it seemed possible. But who would a man like Moriarty trust?

                Someone swift.

                Deadly.

                Smart.

                Sherlock’s eyes drifted to John, his counterpart. What if Moriarty had a counterpart like him? The dark mirror of them. The consulting criminal and the hired gun to their consulting detective and ex-military colleague. But who was he? What was his next move? He wanted to make the Holmes boys suffer, he said. Mycroft was in the hospital. Molly had been put in the morgue. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… John. John. John. John. He was next. Sherlock was sure of it. John would have to be next.

                He had to figure this out.

                “Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said, embracing her quickly before dashing away. He was on a mission. This was going to be solved. Tonight. His heart thundered as he made his way down the halls, brushing passed nurses and doctors.

                “Sherlock!” John tried to call after him, but Sherlock was gone. His long legs had carried him off and away faster than John could get going. He let out a heavy sigh and dropped his head.

                “Are you two together?” Molly asked, her voice soft and curious.

                John’s head snapped up, his cheeks aflame. “Um… yeah. Yeah, we are.”

                “A couple,” Molly clarified and John nodded. She smiled at him, her eyes gleaming. “Good. I’m glad.”

                The red in John’s face increased, he could feel it, burning warm. “I should… I’m going to go after him. Glad you’re better, Molly.”

 

 

                Sherlock was already outside, the wind ruffling his hair. He was sure John was making up for Sherlock’s abrupt exit, so he stopped on the sidewalk and waited. He leaned up against the building, wishing for a cigarette. There was so much that needed to be done and he had a fresh bout of motivation. He could do this. He just needed John to hurry up.

                “Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Is that you?” asked a voice, low, like it was a secret causing Sherlock to look up. He saw a man, older then himself, his chin covered in stubble. Everything about him was dark, from the shadows under his eyes, to his eyes, to his hair. He was tan, muscular and lean. There were tattoos showing up beyond his collar.

                “You must be, M,” Sherlock said. He could see it. Standing straight, the tattoo of his military unit. There were two guns outlined beneath his jacket. “I can’t believe you’re showing up here, like this.”

                “Why?” he scoffed. “Not like anyone knows who I am,” he added. “But I suggest we get going, unless you want John Watson to know who I am.”

                Sherlock tried to keep his face blank, to keep from flinching. “In the public?”

                “Come with me and I won’t have to do anything to him,” he smiled, but his eyes, they were dangerous. They reminded Sherlock a lot of Moriarty. “Otherwise, I will slaughter him and it will be painful.”

                The man put his hand out and an unmarked car stopped.  Sherlock stared at it, considering. He looked over his shoulder and through the small window, he could see the sandy colored hair. John was heading their way and there was a distinct click of a gun causing Sherlock’s heart to stop.

                “Fine, let’s go now,” Sherlock said and the man ushered him into the car.

                As the car sped off, Sherlock could see John burst through the door and to the sidewalk, gawking after him. He watched as John grew smaller and smaller until he was gone in the distance, all the while, he could feel his own heart cracking ever more, becoming colder the farther he drove from John. The cold spread from his heart and through his body, leaving him more alone then he had felt in a long time.

                “We have much to discuss,” the other man said, his tone low, filled with dark humor.


	20. He Could Do Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For John

                John pulled out his phone and kept dialing Sherlock’s number, but each time, it rang out. Each time, John’s thoughts grew a little darker, a little more panicked. His heart was thundering. The last time Sherlock got into a car like that without a word, John killed a cabbie. This had to be case related. Sherlock must’ve been threatened. John had to find him.

                Turning swiftly on his heel, John pushed passed the doctors and nurses and a few children back to Molly’s room. “Did you see who took you?” John panted as he burst through her door. “Did you see where he took you?”

                Molly looked surprised, but regained herself quickly, “It was a dusty looking flat, I suppose. It was dark and I wasn’t conscious long before he drugged me. He seemed to know Jim.”

                John was silent for a moment. This person knew Moriarty? It was almost impossible to believe a man like that could have friends, but if there could a consulting criminal to a consulting detective, wasn’t it just as possible that there was a gun to with him?

                A shiver passed through John. It was like thinking of himself in a darker light, a mirror image without morals. A hired gun.

                “I don’t think he was too old,” Molly continued. “His voice was softer, I think, but I’m pretty sure he’d been drinking.”

                “Thank you, Molly,” John said and started to leave, but Molly stopped him.

                “Is something wrong?” she asked, “Where’s Sherlock?”

                John wanted to spill everything to her, confess that he was sure Sherlock had been taken just now, that he was being held against his will. But he was also sure that if he did, he’d get carried away with his panic, and there was too much work to be done.

                “Outside,” John replied, not entirely a lie. He was out there, somewhere. And John was going to find him. “I have to go. He needs me right now. Lots of new information.”

                He split before Molly could say anything else and pushed his way back outside. John hailed a cab as soon as he hit the sidewalk and gave directions to Mycroft’s home. Perhaps Mycroft kept a file on Moriarty there. Maybe, just maybe there would be something on this mystery gun.

 

 

                Lestrade sat next to Mycroft’s bed, gripping his phone tightly, turning his knuckled white. He wanted to go see Molly, see if she was really okay, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. His legs wouldn’t carry him away from Mycroft. Mycroft, whose lip was torn from a punch, whose eye was swollen, whose pretty face was bruised. Lestrade was going to find who did this, and Lestrade was going to return the favor tenfold. Even if it meant going to jail, if it meant losing his job. Lestrade wasn’t going to let this bastard get away with what he’d done.

                “Wh-” it was a choked whisper followed by a stirring. Mycroft was waking up, Lestrade realized with a start. Mycroft’s eyes were fluttering, his mouth part way open as if he were trying to formulate words. “I hurt.”

                Lestrade fumbled for a moment, grabbing at the control for the pain medication. He upped it a notch or two, until the tension left Mycroft’s face. The sight constricted Lestrade’s chest. He was definitely going to make someone pay for this.

 

 

                Sherlock stared out the window as everything flashed passed. The other man had taken his phone away, turned it off, and taken the battery out of it.

                “You’ll be needing it later,” he explained as he tucked it away in his pocket. “The name’s Sebastian, by the way. Sebastian Moran.”

                “And you know Moriarty, how?” Sherlock inquired, eyeing him. Sebastian smirked as he turned his gaze out the window.

                “It’s a long story,” he said, “it’s a complicated one. But in the end, he is dead and I’m here to… I suppose exact some revenge for what you took from me that day on the roof top.” Sebastian tapped the driver’s seat and the driver took a left. “Put it this way, if you do everything I saw, John Watson will live. Everyone else will be okay. No one else will get hurt.”

                “What is it I have to do?” Sherlock asked, bored. “I’m not some skilled killer.”

                “Ah, but you are, Sherlock,” Sebastian countered. “You really are, but we’ll worry about that later. Right now, we’ve got places to go and people to see. We have to get you sorted in your new accommodations.”

                Sherlock raised an eyebrow. His new accommodations? So they didn’t want to kill him, unless they were talking about a coffin, but that seemed unlikely. This was about revenge. This was about a slow, painful suffering- something that was working quite well.

                Beside him, Sebastian began to dig in a bag down at his feet. He pulled out a syringe and held it out for Sherlock to see.

                “Now, I can’t have you knowing and seeing where you’re going,” Sebastian said, his lips curling into a smile, twisted and deadly. His eyes were darkening with every passing second, and Sherlock could almost see the internal battle. This was all a part of some bigger plan, something bigger than just revenge. This wasn’t Sebastian’s plan. He was simply following orders. Sebastian was a cold killer. Sherlock had no doubt that if this had really been up to Sebastian, Sherlock would already be dead by now. That Mycroft would be dead. They would all be dead.

                “Don’t worry,” he continued. “This won’t kill you. That’s not a part of the plan. Yet. This will just knock you out for a couple of hours.”

                “Is it what you gave Molly?” Sherlock inquired, staring Sebastian down, staring past him. He wanted to know where they were going, wanted to know if there was a way to let John know.

                “What she had was much stronger,” Sebastian said. “Now give me your arm or I call in the order to have Johnny killed. We’re having him tailed in case you decide it’s okay to stop listening.”

                The ice inside of Sherlock grew stronger. This is what it would take, Sherlock knew. He would have to undo all that John had done for him. He would have to change back into who he was, to survive, to keep John alive.

                With a deep breath, Sherlock pulled up his sleeve and held out his arm to Sebastian. The deadly smile on the other man’s face faded, just slightly, just enough to let Sherlock know he was right. That Sebastian would rather shoot Sherlock point blank. But his eyes darkened with resolve and found a vein. He stuck the needle into Sherlock’s skin and emptied it.

                Sherlock leaned back and waited. The heaviness in his body came first, weighing his muscles down, the darkness at the edge of his vision ebbed the world away. He took another deep breath. He could do this. For John he could do anything.


	21. Authors Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMG

I feel like the story is this close to being done! AH I'M SO EXCITED! i have an ending in mind, and i know how i want it written. But i'm really curious, for those of you who are reading this, any thoughts or predictions? 

 

By the way, for those who are still reading this, YOU'RE THE BEST. I know it's been slow going, but i'm working on the chapters, and i'll be working on them more now that my work schedule has slowed a bit. :)


	22. Chaos For The Sake Of Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mormor! and a lovely flashback. ahh the days when they were young...er

                Sebastian ordered the cabbie where to go as he adjusted the unconscious consultant against the far door, watching in the rearview mirror as the good doctor stared after them. The confusion in his eyes, the hurt, the worry, it all played across his face in a glorious presentation. Sebastian was sure Sherlock would’ve been heartbroken to see it, almost making him regret giving him the injection so soon.

                With a sigh, Sebastian looked to the cabbie, a young man with sun-kissed golden brown hair and blue eyes- contacts, obviously because they were simply way too blue- and said, “Remember, you don’t breathe a word to anyone or you don’t live to see tomorrow.” He cast him a dark look, his voice a low warning. This guy wasn’t going to live to see tomorrow anyway, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good for him to know that.

                “Trust me, I won’t say anything to anyone,” the cabbie said and Sebastian saw him smile in the mirror, showing off a row of glistening white teeth.

                There was something about that smile that brought Sebastian back. Just flashes at first. That warped smile, dark tasseled hair, a bloody nose, laughter. It brought a smile to Sebastian’s own face as he thought about that night so long ago.

               

                _The bar he had been in was just like any other dive he would be caught in. He didn’t do fancy or upscale… or clean, really. Right down in the dirt, that’s where he liked to be. Filthy bars and angry drunks. His war-zone home away from the actual war-zone._

_He was on his seventh or so beer in the few hours he’d been there and the buzz was finally kicking in when he saw that wild-eyed, dark haired blast from the past walk in. And at first, Sebastian didn’t recognize him. Jim hadn’t been wearing some fancy suit and tie like last time. No, this time, he blended right in with the crowd, dressed in worn leather and jeans. Like everyone else, he was covered in dirt, his hair tossed in every direction._

_It hadn’t been until they made eye contact that Sebastian recognized him, and it wasn’t by facial familiarity that Sebastian remembered him. It was that look in his eyes. The one that screamed to burn the world down just for fun. Chaos for the sake of chaos. It had taken the warmth right out of Sebastian and replaced it with a chill. The kind that made him want to set down his beer, pick up his gun, and join him._

_The young Moriarty had recognized him as well, shooting him a wink before dropping down into a stool a few patrons away. He called to the bar tender and ordered himself a beer, something so normal, something everyone did when they entered that kind of establishment, but Sebastian knew better. He knew something was going to happen, someone was going to die. But who, he couldn’t help but wonder._

_The bar tender?_

_A patron?_

_Sebastian himself?_

_Sebastian snorted at that last thought. Moriarty would have to take him by surprise, drug him maybe. Something sneaky, something sly. Or perhaps done at a distance._

_He took a drink from his beer, still thinking of all the ways he could be killed when a body dropped next to him.  Sebastian’s eyes shot up, looking around instantly to see if Moriarty was still standing._

_He wasn’t._

_The body that was dropped, well tossed, was Jim, in a heap of leather and limbs. He was rubbing his head, swearing under his breath._

_“That twat just tried to drug me!” a gravelly voice snarled._

_Sebastian’s head whipped up to see a large man standing from his stool, his drink spilled all over the wooden bar top. His bald head glistened with sweat beneath the yellowing lights, making his head seemed outlined by a halo. A tattoo on his neck was similar to the ones Sebastian’s unit received while in the army, but it was long faded, like the leather vest he was wearing._

_A group of bikers emerged from the back, every single one of them wearing a matching emblem on the back of their vests as the baldy. It was a sight that, for the briefest moment, made Sebastian wonder if this was the last time he was ever going to see Moriarty again._

_“Take the little shit outside,” growled the big man, his eyes never leaving Moriarty, until he shot Sebastian a look. “We’re not going to kill him,” he decided to inform Sebastian. “We’re just going to teach him a lesson.”_

_“What do I care?” Sebastian drawled out, taking another drink from his beer. And really, what did he care? Jim was the one foolish enough to get himself caught. Silly kid, murder is for professionals. Though, Sebastian couldn’t help but feel that if this guy wanted to live beyond this week, he should kill Moriarty. He didn’t seem the type to let something like this slide._

_The big man and his men dragged Moriarty out through a back door without much fuss. Moriarty simply stared at Sebastian, his dark eyes frozen over into an icy glare. Not one particularly aimed at him, but more for himself. For being caught._

_Once they were all out of sight and the back door closed, Sebastian chugged the rest of his beer, it’s taste warm and bitter now. He dropped some cash on the bar top and headed out, making his way to the front. Outside, he dug in his pockets for his smokes. He leaned against the wall with a sigh as he placed a cigarette between his lips. The sound of Moriarty’s grunts and groans, the sound of fist to face, foot to ribs played out. It was an unmistakable sound, one Sebastian has heard many times. The sound of flesh hitting flesh. The sounds of pain._

_Christ, if Moriarty wanted to be better villain, he really needed to work on taking pain. He needed to build his tolerance. Maybe he needs this. Interrogations get rough and one could not crack beneath physical pressure so easily._

_Sebastian lit his cigarette and lazily made his way around the establishment. He could see the hoard of bikers circled around their leader and Moriarty, could see between their limbs that Moriarty was already a bloody and rumbled mess. But, he had to hand it out to the kid. Jim was still standing, making Sebastian wonder how he would fare in a balanced fight._

_When Moriarty finally hit the ground and stayed down, the group dispersed and made their way back into the bar. As each of them passed, they nodded to Sebastian, as if it actually signified something. And perhaps, to them, it did. Maybe they recognized the military tattoos splayed across his arms._

_Sebastian strode over to where Moriarty lay face down in the dirt and crouched down next to him. When he showed no sign of getting up anytime soon, Sebastian sat and lay next to him. He pillowed his head in his arms and stared up at the sky, something he felt he hadn’t done in a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time he looked up to see the stars._

_“I got to say, you seriously got your ass kicked,” Sebastian said, his voice light, as if this were a casual conversation._

_Jim finally flipped himself around, his left eye already swollen and bruised. “Maybe you should’ve helped,” he countered, adjusting himself on his back in the grass. For a moment, Sebastian thought he was serious, but then Moriarty smiled. His lip was cut and his nose was bleeding. His face was an array of color now. Sebastian almost wished he had helped, just to save that pretty face from getting so banged up. But that wasn’t his style_

_Sebastian snorted, “I’m a hired gun, Jim, not a hero.”_

_“What? No favors for an old friend?” Jim laughed, but it was a short clipped sound. Judging by the way he was breathing, Jim had definitely taken an injury to the ribs. Bruised or broken, he wasn’t sure yet. “What about chaos for the sake of chaos?”_

_A smirk slid across Sebastian’s face. “You over estimate my affections for you. Besides, chaos doesn’t buy me what I need.”_

_Moriarty laughed through his pain, “And what’s that? Booze, sex, and guns? Please, don’t be so dull.”_

_“I’m a simple man with simple needs,” Sebastian replied with a shrug. He took a drag from his cigarette. The smoke billowed out and up into the dark sky, perfect rings._

_Like his own, Moriarty’s eyes followed the smoke, watching it disappear into the night sky. “What if I could give you all of that and more,” Moriarty asked as if he were asking for directions._

_“You’ve already given me one of those three,” Sebastian laughed, “but I’m listening.”_

_Moriarty smiled. “If I like your work and what you can do, I can promise you that you won’t ever have to work another job. That you won’t even want to work another job.”_

_Sebastian raised an eyebrow, loosing himself in thought. “Prove it.”_

_Next to him, Jim shifted and something plopped down onto Sebastian’s chest. He looked to see a fat roll of cash, all hundred dollar bills, held together in a rubber band. Sebastian couldn’t help the surprised look on his face as he took the cash and stared at Moriarty._

_“Chaos can be very lucrative,” Moriarty said simply. “And so much fun.”_

_He liked the sound of that and a smile that reached his eyes spread across his face. “What is it you want, then?”_

_“I want you to kill everyone in that bar,” Moriarty told him._

_Easy enough, Sebastian thought. “I’ll be right back then.”_

_As Sebastian stood, a look of surprise flashed across Moriarty’s face. It made Sebastian laugh as he strode off to his car. He popped his truck and dug out his gun, something he never went anywhere without, and equipped himself._

 

                He smiled as he remembered all the blood, all the noise. Everyone was shouting, some tried to fight him, others tried to run. None of them got away. It was beautiful.

                “We’re here,” the cabbie said, pulling Sebastian from his memories.

                He looked out the window. The sun was starting to go down, disappearing behind the house- a place falling to pieces, covered in filth. Just like everything around it, it looked rotted and unloved, but It was his and Jim’s. For years, it was a place they had plotted and schemed and killed. Caused chaos for the sake of causing chaos. It was home.


End file.
